


The Winter the Wolves Howl

by sometimesimeow



Series: Tales of Snow and Madness [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Robb, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Boypussy, Breeding Kink, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Feminization, H plus N equals J, Intersex Alphas, Intersex Omegas, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Omega Jon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Size Kink, no betas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimesimeow/pseuds/sometimesimeow
Summary: "INDEFINITE HIATUS" = DISCONTINUEDThree years after Jon mated to his brother, the Starks have continued on with their lives. Their entire lives are uprooted when the Starks receive a letter from the King announcing his arrival to Winterfell. Soon, the plans of Jon Snow are finally put into motion.Winter is coming, and it was time for the Starks to reclaim the North.
Relationships: Domeric Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Howland Reed/Ned Stark, Jaime Lannister/Benjen Stark, Jon Snow/Robb Stark, Petyr Baelish/Catelyn Tully Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Series: Tales of Snow and Madness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/508293
Comments: 75
Kudos: 323





	1. Chapter 1

Bran was the first one to spot Jon.

His older brother had been confined to his quarters for the last few days, tending to the health of his youngest son, Daeron. The fever came out of nowhere and subsequently infected his older brother. Both alphas were terrors for days. Common colds weren’t dull affairs in the North, and the smallest sniffle could turn into a mother’s wail if they weren’t careful. Thankfully, both children recovered, but the whole incident took years off Jon’s life.

“Jon!” Robb shouted. He sounded more alarmed than angry, but Bran wondered if he would stay that way. “What are you doing here?” The heir to Winterfell stopped the omega in his tracks, pulling him close as if the young man had made a plea for warmth. Jon smiled.

He was lovely when he smiled, thought Bran. Robb must have thought so as well because his expression melted when their half-brother leaned into his touch. Jon’s smaller hands pressed against his chest in an adoring manner. Such submission always softened their brother’s heart to whatever request he made. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sun. The fresh air would do me some good.”

“Eddard and Daeron…”

“…will be fine in maester Luwin’s hands,” Jon finished for him. He kissed Robb’s cheek. Chaste, and endearingly devious, but that didn’t stop their father from grunting his disapproval. He barked at them to hurry and commanded Robb and Jon to get on their horse if they were to come back by sunset. Robb’s face turned grim; he obeyed despite the resentment in his eyes. Bran watched his older brother help Jon onto his horse, a white steed that had served well the last three years, on mock tourneys and diplomatic travels, and carried the two of them as if they were feathers on a bird. Jon released a soft laugh when Robb wrapped his arms around his waist and positioned them so they're backs were against each other.

Bran sighed. Robb was protective of their brother; to a point, the septa called it “disgraceful.” Bran disagreed because his behavior was justified. Jon had gotten pregnant twice in the last three years. People met the first pregnancy with resignation. Jon fulfilled a bastard’s prophecy when he bloomed early, and it was only a matter of time before some southern squire or wandering vagrant came between his thighs. It was the second pregnancy that caused people to act with outrage. Winterfell coddled Jon following the birth of his first child, seeing him as a victim to his illegitimate impulses. They shielded him, watched over him, and sometimes smiled when they saw how dearly he loved his first (and at the time, only) child. When the second baby came, their sympathies died as his full body became an indication of his deviance. Apparently, all the guards and wolves in the world couldn’t stop the bastard from getting a cock in his holes.

Now, they just sneered under their breath if he’ll wait a season for the next one.

Bran hated the way people spoke about Jon. They called him the Whore of Winterfell or the scandal of the North. They had hundreds of stories and theories about the fathers, and all of them ended up with Jon being thrown away by a stranger. The only time the stories didn’t was when the tales involved Robb.

Bran turned around to look at his brothers. Robb’s chin was perched on the croak of Jon’s neck. He whispered something in his younger brother’s ear, and Jon smiled softly as he leaned into his body. Robb tightened his grip around his brother’s waist in response.

Some suspected Robb had fathered the second, flying into a jealous rage over his brother’s promiscuity. Others said he was the first; that Jon’s youngest was an act of rebellion, seeded by some foolish knight who promised to take Jon away from Winterfell and was killed when the Starks caught wind. There were worst rumors, but Bran stopped listening when they dare suggested his father was involved. 

When Bran told his brothers what was being said, Jon told him to bear them no mind. Robb had laughed. The two of them did nothing to dispel the rumors, and sometimes, Bran thought Robb was egging them on by how affectionate he was to Jon’s children. He loved them; he demanded to know when their first steps were and had attendants waiting in case they uttered their first words. When a few lords were visiting for Robb’s latest nameday, Robb joked about making them his heirs. It froze the room over, and after a moment of wary eyes and half-hearted smiles, someone tried to force upon laughter. Jon looked like he was about to scream. The two fought for hours after celebrations, and the next morning, Robb’s rounds included apologizing to the other lords for his poor humor. Many laughed with him, promising the “poor lad” that they’ve said much worst under the influence of wine, while others remained suspicious. Bran overheard Lord Karstark curse Robb under his breath, but the comment was made with the spite of a petulant child rather than an insulted lord. For the first time in many namedays, Lord Karstark had not brought his daughter with him to Winterfell; she used to come as frequently as any of their sisters and was pushed upon Robb in hopes of catching his eye. But after the birth of Jon’s eldest, Lord Karstark lost the will to fight. No one compared to Jon, whose honey thighs seemed to promise heaven for anyone who was allowed entrance. The septa would damn Bran for saying so, but he’d hope to be like Jon when he was older. Jon was everything Bran admired. He was a good fighter because he never stopped training even after his children, and he was gorgeous; the fat of childbirth and toneness of the field turned him into a creature that called out to alphas. He had Robb was wrapped around his finger, and their father held onto Jon like a man hanging off a cliff. 

Lord Stark was not the same following Lord Reed’s departure. He had not left Winterfell in three years, nor had he received a visit from his lover in that time. There were no exchanges of letters and no mention of his name outside of Jon’s lips. Bran wished he knew the cause of the exile, for it wasn’t a lack of love. Howland Reed was his soul. Ned loved Howland with as much love as a heart could beat, and without him, there was no sound in his father’s chest. Now, Lord Stark lived like a corpse and ruled over the purgatory that was Winterfell with ice in his veins. He could be right in front of Bran, and there would be miles of distance. Things may have been better for the Stark children if their mother was there, but Catelyn Stark had fallen ill around the same time. She left for Riverrun to recover, and Bran had not seen her in three years.

Sometimes, Bran heard her crying in his dreams. Other times, he felt anger, an unforgiving fury that had him screaming into the night. Jon came to his room when this happened. He assured him it was just a nightmare. When Bran was too scared to close his eyes, Jon held his younger brother until he went to sleep. It wasn’t what Bran wanted, but Jon smelled like a mother, and the scent made Bran dream of snowdrops and white wolves.

Jon was prompt in responding to the needs of Winterfell, be it bedtime comforts or benign budgets. Any issue addressed to the lady of the Winterfell was answered by him. They were at the foot of the forest when Jon asked about the excursion in detail.

“There’s been a shortage of deer and boar in the area.”

“Poaching?” Jon asked.

Ned remained solemn. “Or overhunting.”

“Or wildlings who’ve managed their way outside the wall,” Ramsay suggested, his lips tried not to twitch. Jon eyed the flaying knife located on his hips in suspicion, but he said nothing.

“If it were wildlings, we’d know it. They rarely make it this far South,” Robb disagreed. “At least not without alarming suspicions.”

The party was about to enter the forest when Jon whispered something in Robb’s ear. Robb made a face but stopped. Bran watched him get off his horse, and then help Jon do the same. Jon then told Bran they were riding together.

“Really?” Bran asked. His eyes were wide and eager. Jon smiled at him. Soft, and pretty, and then ruffled his younger brother’s hair in agreement. “I want to talk with you.” Jon got in the back of Bran and took ahold of the reins. Bran could smell the snowdrops already, and his chest got warm. Jon always smelled so good.

“If it’s overhunting, we’ll have to enforce stricter bylaws on the area. We can’t afford to let it get out of hand, especially being so close to winter. We need to make sure every family should have a right to their share.”

“What do we do?”

Jon kissed the back of his head. Bran had seen him do this to his children several times. “Fines for those who disobey, imprisonment if the cause is poaching,” Jon explained as they went into the forest. Jon’s eyes got dark. “Worst, if there are repeat offenders.”

“Is the crime so bad that it would get worse than that?” Bran asked.

“Of course,” Jon told him. “One’s greed could mean another person’s starvation. Nature must be weighed on a scale. If the scale is tipped over or another consumes too much, everything falls to the ground, and the scale is broken.” Jon wrapped his arms around Bran and held him tight. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Will I?” Bran wondered out loud.

Jon gave him a sly smile. “If you fear you are behind in knowledge, you are welcome to ask my brother when you arrive in the Neck. I’m sure he’ll be an attentive tutor.”

Bran flushed. He heard Jon laugh against his hair. Bran was finally old enough to be fostered, and Jon had made arrangements to send him to the Neck. Bran hated how eager he was to leave. He loved Winterfell; he used to think there was no place better, but the fortress stopped feeling like a home for him a long time ago. Only the birth of Jon’s children made things better, but the chill that came when his mother left was still there, and it haunted him each night. He hoped the move south would be good for him. Arya was sent to Dorne last year, and according to her letters, she was ecstatic by the change. She hated the heat but was fond of the lifestyle. She was learning how to fight, and once, Prince Oberyn had taken her on a trip to Esso with hims. Bran had been jealous of her when she made the decision and felt so betrayed; he didn’t speak to her when she left. She had been given a wide selection of houses to be fostered at, and she’d chosen the one furthest away. He hated her for doing that, but deep down, he understood. Arya could feel the parasitical hold Winterfell had on their family; she’d watch it drain their father for much longer than Bran and didn’t want to be taken down with him.

Bran respected her decision, and soon, he would choose a similar fate. “Do you think I’ll like the Neck?”

Jon answered immediately. “You’ll love it.” Jon laughed and rode them further into the forest. They were trailing behind, but neither of them was worried since Robb was riding close by, alongside Ramsay. “They’re all looking forward to seeing you. Especially Jojen.”

Bran giggled at the mention of his cousin and potential betrothed if all went well, “Is he really?”

“Yes,” Jon told him. “He’s gotten bigger. Handsome, last time I heard.”

Bran knew that, because he sometimes saw him in his dreams, and waited until his voice put him to sleep. “It’ll be my home, right?” Bran asked softly. “If we get married, and he becomes Lord of the Neck.”

Jon was silent. “Do you not like that possibility?”

Bran doesn’t know the answer to that question. He wasn’t sure anymore. “Did you like Winterfell? When you first came?”

“I did.” Jon turned to Robb, whose eyes never left him. Then, he smiled and turned back to Bran. “Winterfell is my home. I may not carry father’s name, but I carry the blood of a Stark, and this where I belong.”

The conversation ended at that moment, for a loud shout echoed in front of them. It did not alarm their group to any danger, so everyone dashed ahead to see what the commotion was about. Dead on the ground was a stag with its stomach was torn apart. Its intestines flowed out like jam on the forest floor while fresh flies nestled into its open wound prepared to lay their maggots in a warm home. Jon frowned. He got off his horse. Bran and Robb did as well.

“Mountain lion?” Jory suggested.

“There are no mountain lions in these woods,” their father dismissed. They looked down and saw a trail of blood leading to the steam. They followed its path. When they arrived, Jon’s eyes caught onto the monster that brought them there.

“Now we know who’s been eating all the deer,” Jon said softly.

The beast was a creature of legend, larger than any wolf they had ever seen in their lives. A stag’s horn lodged into his stomach, blood mottling its fur and turning the mud into sludge. Little yelps came from the pups nibbling on its deceased utters.

Jon walked over to his father and crouched down beside him to inspect the creature. His eyes were wide with wonder.

“A freak,” Ramsay muttered.

“It’s a direwolf,” their father told him. He removed the horn from its body; Bran winced at the squelching noise.

“There are no direwolves south of the wall,” Robb informed them.

“Now there are five,” Jon corrected. He petted one—a little grey thing with the prettiest golden eyes. It eagerly responded to Jon’s touches and was fast enough to paw its way into Jon’s shirt. Jon smiled and tried to control the squirming figure. He then glanced at another, auburn creature whose nose was tickling his knee. Despite being newly born, they were well grown. He wondered how long the mother had to suffer from the wound to nurse them to health or if she remained a living corpse for the sake of her children. Jon had heard stories, but there was no way to know the truth. The bastard got up and turned to Bran. “Would you like to hold one?”

Bran nodded eagerly. Jon grabbed the sweet one, hoping its temperament would be easier for Bran to control. The younger omega took the pup from Jon’s arms and managed to keep a firm grip on the creature. “Where will they go?” Bran asked. “Their mother’s dead.”

Cressen announced his disapproval. “They don’t belong down here,” he told them. 

Ned got up. “Better a quick death. They won’t survive without their mother.” 

Ramsay seemed too eager with his knife. “Give it here,” he ordered before pulling out his weapon. The sound of steel scratching the holster shocked Bran into action. “No!”

Robb acted first. He grabbed Ramsay’s arm. “Put away your blade,” he growled.

Ramsay looked at his friend, and then at the pup. He retracted his weapon. “Just following the orders of my lord,” he reminded Robb. Ramsay glanced at Lord Stark. Bran followed his gaze and begged his father to have mercy. “Please, father!”

“I’m sorry, Bran,” Ned told him. He was about to walk away when Jon spoke.

“Father.”

Their father turned around. Jon glanced at the pups one more time before looking into his father’s eyes. His voice was calm, and his face showed nothing. “There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children.”

Bran knew at that moment he loved his brother more than anyone else. Lord Stark’s eldest omega took a step further towards their farther. The stride reminded Bran of Lord Reed, and how he used to walk like paws on snow. “The direwolf is a sigil of our house. We were meant to have them,” Jon pleaded. He touched Ned’s arm. “Arya’s nameday will be soon. What better gift than a direwolf to remind her of home?”

Everyone watched them. Finally, Ned grunted. He turned to Bran. “You will train them yourselves,” he started. “You will feed themselves yourselves.” Bran erupted into a smile. “And if they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

The Lord of Winterfell sheathed his sword and walked away without a word. The soldiers and men hustled to collect the pups. Jon handed over the grey beast in his arms to Ramsay, and Robb was given two to carry for himself. Bran turned to Jon, but before he could express his thanks, his smile dropped.

“Where’s yours?”

Jon shook his head. “I have my own pups to care for. Go on.”

Bran frowned. He looked at his oldest brother. Robb stared at Jon and seemed to be thinking of the right words to say. Bran expected him to offer his pup when they heard Ramsay yelp from behind him. 

"Fucking beast!" Ramsay swore as he waved his bleeding finger. 

Their eyes could barely catch the flash of grey running past them. Jon responded first. Running after the damned thing until he finally stopped to see what he was being led to.

“Jon?” Robb called out. “Jon, what’s the matter?”

Robb and Bran watched Jon bend down at the bottom of the tree trunk and reached forward. When he lifted his hand, he was holding a wolf cub that was white as snow and quiet as a ghost. It didn’t even whimper when Jon raised it up.

“It’s a runt,” Jon said softly. “What are you thinking, not making a sound? We would have abandoned you here,” he scolded. It’s brother, unhappy with their separation, tried to gnaw at Jon’s heel. Jon picked him up as well. With his littermate by his side, the grey cub licked his brother happily. Both did not try to escape, and instead curled up into his arms.

The omega sighed. The three them began walking towards the rest of the party. Bran overheard Jon telling the white one, “Good thing your brother loves you,” as he cradled both the pups in his arms. Robb smiled at the sentiment, before kissing Jon on the cheek. They rode together on their way to Winterfell this time, and Bran was left trailing behind, watching them as always.

***

The wolves took only a few months to be weaned. Arya’s wolf was the first to learn how to drink on its own, and was starting to hunt mice and small birds on its own. Jon thought it prudent to send a messenger with the pup as soon as possible. During his letters to her, Jon wrote that father had gifted her the most wonderful surprise she could imagine before awarding the messenger with his own gift—a thin sword by the name of Needle. It saddened him that they couldn’t share this nameday but traveling so far would have been too much to ask of the Martells, especially after they were kind enough to bring her North last year for her nameday. They couldn’t ask the same favor twice. No, these gifts would have to do.

Eventually, Jon and Robb’s pups were soon grown as well. Jon’s runt, whom he named Ghost for his soundless nature, turned out not to be a runt at all. He was the second to stop needing Jon’s hand to milk. Grey Wind, Robb's wolf, was motivated by his brother’s growth, and almost bit the hand that tried to feed him. Grey Wind was soon hunting alongside his brother, licking him, scenting him, and Jon wouldn’t be surprised if the next time he saw them together, Grey Wind would be mounting him. 

“He certainly takes after his master,” Jon mused as Robb pressed him against the headboard of his bed. His eyes were half-shut in pleasure; his hands entangled in Robb’s hair. Wetness built up in his thighs. Robb’s mouth was firmly latched upon his nipples, trying to celebrate their pups’ maturity by sucking his breasts dry. Daeron was on the bottle now, and he’d stop demanding Jon open up his shirt when he was hungry. Robb, on the other hand, showed no such signs of such growth.

“You taste so good,” Robb murmured against his chest. He lifted his mouth to kiss Jon, and Jon responded by pulling his mouth further against him. The two moved so that Jon was lying on the bed completely. Robb spread his legs; he was in between them before breaking the kiss. 

“I should get you pregnant again before you’re empty,” Robb suggested slyly. He positioned the tip of his cock against Jon’s cunt.

Jon gasped. Three years have passed since they’ve mated, and Robb was no less intense in his affection. Jon no longer used the medicine to keep his womb protected, and like most alphas, Robb took perverse pleasure in breeding him. Robb hadn’t realized the effect Jon’s pregnancy would have on him, or what his little brother’s sullied reputation would do to his head. Some people advised Robb to keep his brother on a leash if he wanted to avoid a fourth bastard in his home. No one paid mind when they were together now; half of them even thought it was prudent when Robb wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist so tight it would bruise, while the others enjoyed the fuel it gave their vile rumors. During celebrations, they were always seated together despite Jon’s status as a natural-born son. It made playing with Jon’s body easier, and Robb loved bundling Jon’s damp panties in his hand when his brother couldn’t help himself from leaking on his seat.

In bed, Robb was pressed against his cunt. Jon squirmed underneath him, his muscles tightening around the tight when Robb entered. 

“Relax,” Robb ordered. “I’ll tear you open if you don’t let me in.”

Jon closed his eyes. The omega spread his thighs further apart. He tried to stay calm, but his entire body shook at the thought of being left gaping open once Robb finished with him.

Robb smirked. “Perhaps you like the thought.”

Jon bit his lower lip. He could feel the pressure build up as Robb sheathed his cock inside him in a slow, torturous fashion. Jon lowered his resistance; his body willed itself open for that familiar cock. He could feel the veins of his brother’s shaft pressed against his insides; his girth stretched out his hole so it gaped around the intrusion.

“Robb…” Jon hummed in pleasure. “You’re so thick.”

“Shh,” Robb quieted. “I want to hear your hole.”

Jon moaned but kept his mouth shut. True enough, as Robb began to push further into Jon’s body, the sound of slick got louder amidst the moaning. Robb groaned as well. His cock felt like heaven at the moment. Jon’s insides were warm and wet, and tight but they stretched out so nicely around his cock. Robb didn’t want anything more in the world than to fuck his brother in these moments. He gripped Jon’s hips to keep them perfectly still while he pushed himself balls deep into his younger brother.

Jon moaned helplessly. The way Robb’s balls rubbed against his pussy lips turned Jon into a leaking, trembling mess. His thighs tried to tighten around Robb’s body, squeezing the cock further inside him. Robb growled at the pressure. Jon’s chest filled with pride and joy at the sound.

"You're too tight for a mother of two,” Robb swore, before moving out for his first thrust. "Thought you'd loosen up by now. Instead, you've just good more soft." 

Jon curled his toes in response and arched his hips forward despite the grip on his body. Winterfell may not recognize Robb as the father of his children, but his body did. His hole was already relaxing around the throbbing intrusion, and he swore to Robb he was ready for more.

“Please, you feel so good, Robb. Go one. Please!”

“You want another baby that badly, Jon?” Robb teased. He slowly pulled a few inches out of Jon before thrusting back in at once. “Two wasn’t enough for your whore body?”

Jon almost screamed. “Y-yes! Yes! Robb. I want one Breed me..” He could feel Robb throbbing inside him again before pulling out once more. He did the same thing twice, long retreats and a hard, fast dicking inside him. Jon loved it and tried to pressed himself closer to get more cock each time.

Robb held him still. “Tell me. Tell me how good it felt to be bred by your brother. Remind me how you seduced the heir of Winterfell.”

His brother’s request had Jon biting into his lip to keep from screaming. He knew Robb loved those sorts of words. He liked the way Jon’s body burned with humiliation at being a mother at such a young age. He was the mother of two, and just barely out of childhood himself. Their affair was a debauched, terrible thing that drove both of them mad.

“I’m sorry,” Jon choked out. “You feel so good inside me. I couldn’t…I couldn’t help myself. You’re so big. You…I love, love it when you’re inside me. I couldn’t let this cock go away. I wanted you to be mine. Only mine.” Only Robb. His perfect, older brother, who should only be sharing his seed with his wife, but instead was wasting it on his younger brother. The same, bastard brother who carried the blood of their father’s mistress and prevented Robb’s cock from getting wet with any other omega. Jon loved it when Robb made him feel like a terrible, shameless whore because of it.

“Only mine’s?” Robb chuckled. “Is that why you got pregnant? You wanted my seed so badly you were willing to ruin this perfect,” Robb thrust his cock back inside Jon. “Little.” Thrust. “Body.”

Jon’s body chose that moment to gush out in pleasure.

Robb laughed. “You’re so lucky you feel so good. It doesn’t matter how well I use this pussy; I’m already addicted to your cunt. I can’t even think of filling anyone else,” Robb assured Jon, as his little brother writhed underneath him. Robb picked up the pace. His heavy balls slapped against Jon’s folds, and the scent of sex and came filling up the room as Robb bred his brother again.

“Yes, yes…” Jon moaned. “Breed me again. I want another baby, Robb. Please, please…”

The perversion of Jon’s request made Robb pump into him harder. Jon knew it drove him mad to think his once untouchable brother was begging to be impregnated a third time. It was a filthy thing to desire; to want a violation so badly, he would carry a stranger’s seed inside him for nine months and then nurse the sweet child his pretty, perky tits. Jon released a string of high-pitched whorish moans while his brother abused his loose hole. Each thrust sent Jon further to orgasm, and the sloppy sounds of fucking and flesh echoed in the room.

Jon was so close. Robb claimed Jon’s pussy like an animal, making sure it was loose enough to use later without preparation. Jon knew that was one of his favorite parts with Robb. The promise of more to come; the assurance that his own brother would be fucking him in the future whenever he wanted, and Jon would obey him without question.

“I love you like this,” Robb whispered. “Desperate for my cock, even when it means ruining your pretty body with another child.” Robb plunged his entire length inside of Jon. Jon almost scream. “You’re so pretty. Such a waste of an innocent face.” Robb didn’t let his cock slip out of Jon’s hole. He was fully buried inside his brother when he resumed his motions. He fucked him at every possible angle, hitting all of Jon’s favorite spots. “Good thing I got to you first.” 

Jon’s hips pushed forward to get more cock inside his cunt. “Don’t make me wait,” Jon moaned. The cock was drilling inside him, making him forget how to think. Jon tried to meet each thrust with his hips, but eventually, he couldn’t feel anything but the numbness from a thorough fucking. His brother’s growls pushed further to the edge. His body couldn’t take any more of that fat cock pushing deep inside him.

Jon’s body shook from the sensation. Warmth spread throughout his body as he laid and took Robb within him. He felt complete like this was all he ever wanted. He tried to grip Robb’s cock tighter, which earned him another growl and tense thrusts. Jon waited for what he’d been waiting for this entire time. Robb pushed his cock inside to the root and unloaded a huge amount of potent cum inside his lover. Jon bucked his hips into his brother’s stiff fingers. His inner walls were stretched open by his brother’s cock, and it was made wider by the influx of cock filling up his insides. The pleasure was so intense, Jon thought he was going to pass out.

“Robb…” Jon whimpered. His insides felt flood completely, and he could feel Robb’s pulsing cock start to soften—just the slightest—inside him.

Robb captured his lips in a kiss. They made out for a few moments before fatigue took over his alpha’s body and collapsed to the side of the bed. Jon groaned when his brother slipped out of him, removing the plug to the enormous load trapped inside him. His sheets ruined again. He hoped his maids wouldn’t be so imaginative with the rumors this time. 

Robb turned to him at that moment to tell him, “I love you.” His declaration was pure and concise. It conveyed every heartfelt emotion, every honest intention he could have given to his lover at that moment. Jon tried not to smile when he heard it. His attention turned to the ceiling, so Robb would see his amusement. Despite his attempts, Robb grinned, and his muscular, sweaty arm pulled Jon closer. The two of them there, relaxing in each other’s arms. Robb eventually closed his eyes and fell asleep, much to the amusement of his lover who kissed then kissed him on his cheek.

***

Robb woke up to the sound of waddling. He felt the extra weight on the bed before he saw it, and when Robb opened his eyes, he was greeted to the sight of his omega coddling their oldest boy in his arms. Both their wolves were resting at the seat of their bed, minding their youngest patiently. 

Robb smiled at his little family. Especially at his pretty mate.

“He’s gotten so big,” Jon noted. Robb wasn’t sure he was talking out loud or to him until Jon told him they should bring him along to the Neck when they drop off Bran. “We could join his party and show off their grandmother’s homeland.” 

Robb reached over to run his finger down Jon’s shoulder. “That sounds like a good idea,” he agreed. He grimaced as Jon placed another kiss on Eddard’s forehead. “Our sons should experience all the North has to offer."

Jon became still for a moment. He could hear the displeasure on Robb’s tongue when he rolled out the phrase “ _our_ sons.”

None of their children carried the Stark name. They were bastards in the eyes of the law, even as Robb yearned to make them his. Robb loved his sons as much as he loved Jon, and it angered him that he couldn’t announce to the world their lineage. Jon managed to keep this rage at bay for three years, but Robb had grown impatient. The North was stagnant. Since Catelyn Stark’s betrayal was revealed, it seemed that any talk of treason or independence had disappeared. The cloak of their secrets was heavy on their backs, and Robb grew tired of the weight. He wanted his children to be legitimized. He wanted to rule the North. He wanted his mother’s exile and Howland Reed’s rejection to mean something.

“Patience,” Jon told his brother. He removed his attention from their son to Robb. They kissed, and it was enough to soothe Robb for the moment. “We’ve made so many sacrifices these last few years. You and I. _Father_.” Jon’s fingers dug into the sheets. Robb could tell Jon was thinking about his mother, and the great love lost between him and their father. “It was not for nothing,” Jon repeated. “Arya is in Dorne. Bran will be fostered in the Neck. Not to mention all the ties we’ve made across the North. They love you, Robb.”

Robb snorted and laughed. “Tell that to Lord Karstark. He thinks I’m a fine lord whenever I’m not lusting after you.” Robb rubbed circles into Jon’s thighs. “And I always lust you.”

Jon shook his head and swatted his hand away. “He relies on nothing but rumors and suspicions to fulfill his bitterness. He knows you carry no love for his daughter. He’s insulted without any grounds.” Jon cradled Eddard close to his chest. Just the smell of their son was enough to make him lightheaded with delight. “But he is loyal. Maybe not as much as an Umber or a Mormont, but he will join you in battle, and he will take the entire South with him for the glory of the North. We need that.” 

“True.” Robb got up. He stroked his son’s head. “But he’s not the one I am worried about,” Robb reminded Jon. “The Boltons…”

“—Are quiet,” Jon completed. “Have you heard from Theon?”

Robb shook his head. “His letters don’t reveal any adverse intentions, hidden or otherwise.”

Jon frowned. “And you are sure he is the one writing?”

“It’s his handwriting and his style.”

“Fancy words with no weight?” Jon asked playfully. Despite his mocking, Jon was relieved. He had not seen Theon since the wedding, and all his invitations to join him in Winterfell were met with excuses or flat-out disregard. Theon had given birth to a son a short while after him, and he’d hope their children would be close.

A solemn look overtook Robb. “Perhaps without my mother’s assistance, they’ve realized their lost cause.” 

“They’ve waited centuries for Winterfell. Three years is a chore by comparison.” Jon could use some of that patience in this household. “The Boltons will make their move eventually. They just need the right sign. For now, we have to build our walls,” Jon told him. “Enjoy the peace, Robb. You’ll miss it later.” 

Robb groaned. He picked up his son, and as he laid back on the bed, he swung the toddler over his head. Eddard shrieked in delight.

“I don’t mind traveling to the Neck,” Robb said. “You’re right. It will good for them.”

He was maturing, Jon thought with amusement. Changing the topic to avoid a conversation that would upset him was the most growth he’d shown in years.

“I only worry for father. If all of us leave him for the Neck, I fear for his health. He hasn’t been the same since your mother…” Robb struggled to find the words. He couldn’t well say ‘abandoned’ in good conscience. “left.”

“They likely won’t meet even if he comes along,” Jon answered softly. “I heard from my siblings that mother only spoke to Arya when they passed through the Neck last year. He didn’t even greet their party.”

Robb grew quiet. The subject was a sensitive one for Jon, who’d been raised on the notion that his parents' affair, though a sin in society, was honest and true. He was the child of love, married underneath a weirwood three eighteen years ago. He was a trueborn son in the eyes of the gods. Their separation proved everything Jon learned was a lie, and he’d been coping with the loss since.

“If there are no problems, I think it’s a good idea. Let’s bring our children to the Neck. You’re right. It was your home once, and they should see it. Besides, I am not opposed to the _pleasures_ of the Neck.” Robb eyed Jon’s rump longingly. “I remember your friends being delightfully accommodating.”

Jon’s eyebrow raised so high it could have flown to Dorne. “They were,” Jon agreed evenly. “Though, it might be too late for Bran to learn their ways of keeping company. I’m sure he’ll have rather apt tutors in that regard.”

The suggestion dropped any smile from Robb’s face. Without warning, he pulled at Jon’s curls and dragged Jon’s face towards his own. Jon yelped but submitted to the kiss.

When Robb was finished, he pulled away and let go of the iron grip on Jon’s head.

Jon was breathless. He wasn’t naïve enough to think the wetness between his legs was only from their previous session.

With a lingering grimace, Robb asked if they should invite Rickon along on the trip. “He’s closest to Bran. He’ll want to see him in those last days.”

“If we bring Rickon, we cannot bring Sansa,” Jon reminded him. “You realize that? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Robb shrugged.

Jon let out a short, soundless laugh. “I know you’re upset, but Sansa is growing up. Her behavior isn’t a rebellion against you.”

“She’s getting worst,” Robb muttered. “Ever since her heat, she’s been out of control. She doesn’t attend half of her lessons and barely joins us for gatherings. When I try to talk to her, she ignores me. When father confronts her, she acts sweet as a doe, and I look like some madmen making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“It’s because it’s you,” Jon told him without a shard of sympathy. He chuckled when he saw the affronted look on Robb’s face. “She already has a father. She doesn’t need another one.” No matter how distant their father had become. “It doesn’t help,” Jon adds. “That you’ve threatened her.”

Robb scoffed. He got up from the bed and reached for his pants on the floor. Jon noticed that the sky was getting dark. He’d have to check on the ravens soon and make a report for Vayon Poole, as well as maester Luwin. Robb’s instinct for duty never ceased to surprise Jon.

“I didn’t threaten her,” Robb dismissed. “I made it clear that if she disrespected you again, we would see to her education outside of Winterfell. She’s always loved the South.” He wasn’t looking at Jon. "I'll send her as far as she wants if that's the case."

Jon shook his head. He moved to get ready as well and rested his eldest son next to the wolves.

“That wasn’t your threat to be made.” 

“Father didn’t disagree.”

“Father wasn’t there, and gods know neither of you talk to him unless death is a visitor.”

“That’s not my fault.”

Jon gave him a tired look. “You overreacted,” he chided. “She was baiting you, and you fell for it.”

“She called you a bastard.” 

“According to law, I am.”

“That’s not an excuse. You’re my mate. I had to defend you.”

“Robb, she doesn’t know—”

“That’s my fucking problem, isn’t it!” Robb shouted. “She doesn’t know! Everyone doesn’t know, even when they all think we’re fucking!”

The room became silent. Suddenly, their boys burst into tears. Jon was taken back by Robb’s fuming but recovered enough to tend their children’s moods. From the corner of his eye, he saw his brother angrily try to tie his shirt before giving up in a huff. He moved to the bed and sat on the sides. He was quiet, thinking to himself as he did in one of his moods. Jon did his best to settle his children. When they were done with their tantrum, the wolves immediately started licking their tears clean as a gesture of comfort.

Then, Jon attended to a more urgent matter. He walked over to Robb’s side and got on his knees. His hands reached forward to help Robb with his shirt. Everything was quiet. Jon was done tying the first string when they both looked up, and their eyes met.

Robb took a deep breath, now calm. “Even if the law only sees you as a bastard, you are still the oldest omega. You deserve respect, if not for the old gods, than for our father. He recognized you. He raised you here alongside us. She knows your place.” Robb swallowed his frustration. His hands bundled into a fist. “Arya does, Bran does, fuck even Rickon understands. She doesn’t.”

Jon took a moment to consider what to say next. Finally, he offers Robb an expression of agreement before continuing his original task of dressing Robb. “You might be right.” Jon finished and got up. He made a seat on Robb’s lap. Robb took ahold of his waist but said nothing. “Or you would be right—if I was willing to accept power based on my status,” Jon corrected him. “Robb, Sansa is the legitimate child of Lord and Lady Stark. She is more entitled to Winterfell than I am, even if it does not feel right in our hearts.”

Before Robb could counter his argument, Jon continued. “When you finally have the standing to claim me as your mate, Sansa will defer to me, not because I am the oldest omega but because I am yours. Nothing would make me happier.”

Robb frowned. He wished he could ignore how the weight in Jon’s words felt like gold, but he couldn’t shake his suspicions. “Why are you so reluctant to send her away? You’ve wanted to make alliances. Sansa is perfect.” 

Jon wiped a part of Robb’s hair from his face. His hair was developing a curl, Jon thought. “Because she is our sister, not an unruly puppy,” Jon answered. “We don’t send off family because we’re upset with how they’ve been behaving,” Jon explained.

Robb smiled at him, but the smile didn’t meet his eyes. Jon caught his expression and sighed before Robb could answer.

“I’m not entirely convinced of her loyalty. She loves the North, and she loves us, but these years have been trying on her. If we send her now, I can’t be sure she won’t turn her back on Winterfell.”

Like our mother, Robb thought bitterly. For those reasons, he didn’t deny the notion, and instead nodded his agreement. “They were close," he admitted. Robb's voice doesn’t choke anymoer when he mentioned his mother. Jon was both sad and relieved.

Those were the best words to say. JOn leaned forward for another kiss. They were interrupted by a high-pitched, yelping noise. Both of them turned to their wolves. Grey Wind was growling down at Daeron, grabbing onto his tail but made no moves to act in retribution. He snapped at the child, only to receive a giggle in response. The happiness of the little alpha’s face turned the wolf’s anger into resignation, as it curled up again, swishing its tail inward for protection. Daeron giggled and reached out for Ghost, who was nestled next to Eddard, being stroked like a pampered pup.

Jon laughed when they parted.

“They’re good protectors. Hard to kill. Loyal.” Jon mused. “We should think about breeding them for the children.”

“Our own little dragons?” Robb chuckled. “North of the wall, they grow as large as horses.”

“A consideration,” Jon responded lightly.

Robb wasn’t opposed to the matter. “It might be possible in the future, but right now, Grey Wind and Ghost are enough. I don’t see the point in having more.”

Jon doesn’t respond at first. Instead, he kissed Robb’s lips and pulled away. “It’s good to prepare for the future. Who knows how many sons I’ll bear you?”

Robb chuckled. His hands move to cradle his ass. Jon arched his back and moaned delightfully. “Is that a promise or a prophecy?”

Jon smiled against his lips. “Maybe both.”

Like all crannogman, Jon was forbidden to reveal the songs of peaches—a Neck tradition that allowed newly matured citizens to hear their fates, but he’d skirted around the rules through excerpts and hints. Jon told Robb about a king in the North and a chariot driven by wolves, and a castle illuminated by the moon but never told him a name or time. Robb liked lying down and asking Jon for more, but Jon would smile and gave him half-hearted answers.

Robb shook his head at Jon’s coyness. “I’ll hope it’s a promise, then.” Robb wrapped his arms around his brother and lover and kissed his pretty little tits again. “You always keep your promises.”

Winterfell was a cold place, but for Jon and Robb, it was their home. They made sure it was filled with joy through their love. Love that came from each other, their children, or the many ghosts who walked their halls in peace. Many would come and go, but the two of them would always remain as the Starks of Winterfell.

***

Jon and Robb walked to the courtyard with their children and wolves in tow. Robb was tasked with training Rickon and Bran. Though Eddard or Daeron were barely old enough to hold a rattle, the two seemed to enjoy the action that occurred on the physical grounds. Jon kissed them all goodbye and told his brother to call if there was any trouble. Robb told him he could handle the children and patted his brother’s ass playfully. With an eye roll and snort, Jon retreated to the raven’s room. Luwin was there. He greeted Jon when Jon sat across from him to mind the letters. They had built up like a pile of leaves, forcing a sigh out of Jon. Before he got to work, he saw Luwin get up from his seat to close the window.

Jon stopped him. “I’d like it open, Maester Luwin.” 

“Can you work with the noise?” Luwin asked him.

Jon nodded. “I like to hear the children play.” He looked out the window to see his youngest being carried in his father’s arms, and Rickon and the other boys squealed as Bran missed another shot at the arrow. Rickon’s turn was up, and much to the humiliation of his younger brother, he managed to make a decent shot on target. His oldest son was giggling at the jeers headed Bran’s way, and the boy responded with kindness. He picked Eddard up, despite their comparable sizes.

“It is a nice sound,” Luwin agreed. He glanced over Jon’s desk, eying the mountains of paperwork. “You’ll have a busy week.”

“I like being useful. It makes it harder for the gossipers to say I’m not pulling my weight.”

“Do you need assistance?” Luwin offered. “Some of these words are rather advanced.”

Jon shook his head. “The more I read, the more it’ll help me better my letters.” 

“You could try books,” Luwin offered dryly.

Jon gave him an exasperated look. “Books are frivolous. These have weight.”

“Thank the gods your siblings don’t share your aversion.” 

Luwin offered him a small smile, revealing his half-hearted joke. Jon tried not to pout.

“Robb and Arya read war books, and Sansa has her fairytales. I’m the one who has to do the numbers,” Jon defended for the hundredth time. Luwin chuckled. It was a joke between the two of them that never seemed to get old—at least not for the maester. Jon sighed and moved his current letter to a pile he liked to call nonsense. Then, Jon paused when he saw what underneath was. Jon ran his finger over the golden sigil in awe, memorizing every curve and line. Snapping out of his trance, he hastily grabbed his letter opener. Jon read every single word in silence.

When he was finished, he gently placed the letter in his lap.

“Maester Luwin?” 

“Yes, Jon?”

“Where is my father?”

Luwin looked up and was surprised to see Jon’s cold expression.

“He was heading towards godswoods last I heard.” He looked down at the message in Jon’s possession, currently hidden by the desk. “Is there something wrong?”

Jon did not answer before he walked out of the room. 

***

For the preservation of Winterfell, Ned Stark sacrificed his heart.

The Warden of the North justified his actions as being for the good of his kingdom, but the words that left his mouth did nothing to fill the void in his chest. He devoted himself to his duty and the gods, and his efforts were rewarded with the graces of the commonfolk and the respect of the high born. He was not happy, but he did not need to be. Happiness was an emotion best shared with a loved one, and without Howland Reed, there was no need to seek it out. Any spark above contentment, he found in the last remaining remnant he had of Howland Reed—their son, Jon Snow.

Jon Snow would forever remain his solace, and his son resemblance to the man he loved made him immaculate in his eyes. He forgave all wrongdoings if done by his sweet son’s hands, and his mercy survived two children and hundreds of nightly sins. This was the only restitution Ned could give Howland Reed for all the crimes he’d committed against him.

Though Ned loved his other children, none of them would be able to wrap their arms around him as Jon did. He was sitting next to the black pool, using the waters to clean the Stark’s ancestral heirloom—a gigantic greatsword by the name of Ice. Lord Stark heard the footsteps behind him. Without warning, a pair of arms embraced him from behind and kissed him on the cheek.

“How are you, father?”

Ned nodded at him. “Well." 

Jon gave him a neutral smile. “Have I interrupted your prayers?”

“No.” Ned looked into the eyes of the wailing weirwood tree. “I was thinking.”

Jon sat next to his father and leaned his head on his shoulder. “About what?”

“Your mother.”

“Good thoughts, then?”

Ned gave him what would have been a smile three years ago. Instead, it was a shadow of amusement with the ruefulness of a broken man.

“There’s been word of an influx of wildlings coming south of the wall. Ben writes that the strength of the Night’s Watch is below a thousand, and many crows have been deflected to the wildlings.”

“And my mother invaded your thoughts?”

“When it comes to acts of war, I like to think about how he would respond. He didn’t like to serve retribution, but when he did, it never failed to satisfy.”

“That is true,” Jon agreed. “What do you plan on doing?”

Ned lifted Ice and admired the cold steel.

“For now, I can provide aid and men as requested. If it grows worst, I have no choice but to call the banners and ride north to deal with the King-beyond-the-wall for good and all.”

“Mance Rayder?” Jon frowned. “Do you think it will come to that?”

“We will see.”

Jon didn’t like the thought of Robb marching into battle against a wildling. He wasn’t even sure he was prepared to fight against them, having his Neckborn-swordsmanship corrupted by the formalization of Winterfell for the last half-decade. On a practical matter, Jon preferred not to waste what little resources they had on a battle north of the wall. Jon kept his opinion to himself, nonetheless. He didn’t need his father, or his uncle, questioning his reluctance. All he could hope was that time would settle this issue.

Ned glanced at the paper in his hand. “I know how busy you are. What did you need me for?”

Jon’s smile dropped. He reached out to take his father’s hand. “I’m afraid I have some grieving news.” Jon closed his eyes and then opened them to look his father dead on. There would be no mincing of words. “I got a letter from King’s Landing today.” He handed the paper to his father. “Father, I am sorry, but Lord Arryn is dead.”

The effect was immediate. Jon watched as something broke in his father, as the last of his father figures were buried underneath the ground. Despite his mother’s ambivalence, Jon knew how much his father loved Jon’s namesake. The man helped raise Ned Stark to be a man of honor, and though there was much bitterness between the Arryns and the Reeds for his decisions in the war, it could not be said he did not love his foster sons. He risked his life and his kingdom for Ned Stark, and Jon would forever be grateful for that sacrifice.

“Is this news certain?” Ned asked; his voice was weak.

Jon nodded. “It was the king’s seal. I believe the handwriting may have been the king’s—he spoke of specific memories and jokes I believe was meant for someone who shared his humor,” Jon offered, trying to lighten the mood. Then, he sighed. “He swore Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Practically drowned in poppy milk by maester Pycelle, so there was no pain.”

“That is some small mercy, I suppose,” Lord Stark said. Still, he did not focus on his grief. “How is his wife? And son?”

“The message said they were well and returned to the Eyrie,” Jon informed calmly. He did not like talking about the Tully’s, even those made otherwise through marriage.

Ned sheathed his sword. “I will write to the king at once.”

“It might be best to hold off until you’ve spoken,” Jon interrupted.

Ned looked at him, confused.

“The letter had another purpose. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out.”

It took a moment for Ned to comprehend her words, but when the understanding came, the mourning left his eyes, and a smile broke across his face. The first smile in a long time. “Robert is coming here?”

Jon smiled as well, despite the dismal situation. He did not want to take anything away from his father, despite the churning in his gut as skies grew dark and his mood darker still. “He is, and he’s bringing the whole realm, it seems.”

His father finally took the time to read the letter. “Damnation, how many years has it been? And with this much notice. Look at his party—a hundred knights and all their retainers…”

“Freeriders, as well as the queen and his children,” Jon added. “We’ll be very busy with the arrangements.” 

“Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes. A small relief, given the time it will take to prepare.”

“I will have Sansa assist me. This will be the least of your concerns.”

Ned gave him a true look of affection. There were many areas in which his father remained oblivious to the hostility amongst his children. Jon planned to keep it that way.

“Should we send word for Uncle Benjen? He has wished to thank him for his mercy in his sentencing.” 

“Yes, of course,” his father agreed. “Ben will want to be here. I'll tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird.”

Jon looked forward to seeing his uncle, for whatever reason it was given. Perhaps he could even get a read on this situation with the wildings and the Night’s Watch. “The queen’s brothers are also in the party,” Jon added.

His father grimaced, the lack of love for the lions showing in a single expression. Still, he recovered from his faux pas. “If the price for Robert’s company is an infestation of Lannisters, I'll accept it. With half his court arriving, I doubt I’ll have to suffer through a word.”

Jon listened to his father make subtle complaints about their visitors, some purely in jest while others were carefully hidden insults against his less favorable guests. He answered the questions Ned had about the queen’s children, having researched the Lannisters and Baratheons in great detail, correcting ages and assumptions made by his father. Ned looked proud when he did so.

On their way back, Jon asked about King Robert. He liked to hear stories from his father’s perspective if nothing else than to compare them with the horrors whispered by his mother. To his mother, King Robert was a selfish fool who’d been taking advantage of Ned since their childhood, stringing him along on adventures to fodder his own pride. To Uncle Ben, the king was fun, jovial man who had no taste for rule but a hunger for battle—a brilliant warrior and tactician, and handsome to boot. To his father, the king was a man amongst men. The praises spewed with love, and though his descriptions were detailed with jeers, all critiques were all spoken with affection.

“Do you think he is a good king?” Jon asked when he was finished with a story.

“He is a good man.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Jon chided. He stopped right outside the godswoods to confront his father. “Is he a good king? Are you happy to be under his rule?”

Ned took a moment to stare at Jon. Then, he reached forward to stroke Jon’s hair. “You have my face, and yet every time I look at you, I see your mother.”

Jon tried not to smile, but he failed. “Does that make you happy, father?”

Ned didn’t hesitate to answer, yes.

***

Once back at Winterfell, Jon traveled the halls to inform everyone of the news. He wanted all hands-on board for the finest festivities, and he needed all the help he could get. Excitement built up as the news spread throughout the castle. In the meantime, Jon informed Bran that his trip would have to be postponed. They needed to conserve their resources and having celebrations back to back would do no one any good. Bran did not mind, but he found the whole situation odd.

“It feels weird,” he told his older brother.

“What does?” Jon asked. He was preparing his papers and ink to get started on the numbers involved.

“The king coming. Doesn’t feel right.”

Jon frowned; he promised Jojen and his mother to never brush off one of Bran's "feelings". “Perhaps, it’s the suddenness of it all. We don’t have much time to prepare.” Even Robb looked unsettled when he was told of their deadline. He was already talking with Jory to send an honor guard south to greet their party. He would need to prepare meat as well, but not so much as to deprive the king of a hunt when he arrived. The man loved to hunt from what Jon heard. 

Jon smiled at Bran. “I thought you always wanted to meet the king. And the knights. There will be hundreds of them.”

Bran did smile at that. Jon kissed him on the forehead and resumed his duties. He dropped off his children at Old Nan’s to care for, and while the aging woman grumbled and moaned about the suddenness of her caretaking, she still kissed both babes on their soft snowy skin and told Jon to get out so she could do her job properly. Jon kissed her on the top of her head and laughed.

Jon’s last stop was at a room he hardly ever frequented. He knocked on the door, and when it opened, he was greeted by a shrouded woman. Jon frowned.

“Is Sansa in?”

Septa Mordane gave him a cross look. She never liked him. Jon could think of a hundred reasons why, and the tedium and effort to sway her otherwise were not worth the reward, so he let her seethe in her hatred. “What is it you need, Jon Snow?”

Jon tried not to smirk when she called him by his full name.

“I want to see Sansa. I need her to help me with the preparations for the king’s arrival.”

Septa Mordane’s eyes widened the slightest, as she realized Jon was calling for help on proper, lady duties, and not a recreational request.

“Sansa is sleeping.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “It’s almost dinner.”

Septa Mordane straightened her spine and turned her nose up. She became more defensive. “Her lessons were quite tolling today. She was tired.”

Jon’s suspicions raised, but he did not voice them out loud. “Well, when she wakes, make it clear I would like to see her. As you know, she is the oldest _Stark_ omega. With her mother ill, this is her duty as well.”

Septa Mordane pursed her lips. “And she will be eager to have your assistance when she performs her duty.” Jon narrowed his eyes at the insinuation but kept his tongue still. “I will relay the message.” 

“Thank you,” Jon told her. She closed the door on him at that moment, and though Jon hesitated, he eventually walked off to continue his messages.

Septa Mordane turned around and sat on the empty bed, trying to regain the years of her life from the encounter. She truly, undeniably, hated that boy.

***

At the Night’s Watch, Benjen received his raven as soon as he came back from a scouting trip. He craved a bath in lukewarm water, and the arms of an experienced alpha to comfort his sore muscles. The gates opened their arms up to him like a loyal wife, and he was met with the warm words of a comrade.

“The commander’s whore is back!” barked Alliser Thorne upon his arrival.

Benjen smirked when he heard the announcement. He got off his horse without a look in Thorne’s direction. Many alphas herded towards him to offer assistance. They tried to help him out of his armor and sharpen his sword and provide him water for his throat. The subservience enraged Thorne, who started barking orders at them to get in line. Benjen nodded to them his thanks but still made no moves to address Thorne. Such apathy always riled the spiteful creature up, and today was no exception. Benjen could hear the scowl on the master-of-arms face. His bitterness was palpable, and Benjen’s tongue salivated over the taste.

One of the stewards informed him that maester Aemon had news for him, delaying his hopes for comfort. He agreed and walked to the library, where both Maester Aemon and Commander Mormont resided.

“I was told you have news for me.”

Aemon handed him a letter while looking straight at the doorway. Benjen took it from him. “It’s from your brother.”

Benjen skimmed through the letter. “The king is coming to Winterfell,” he revealed. “Lord Arryn is dead.”

Commander Mormont nodded. “Does your brother request your presence?”

Benjen’s eyes were still reading the letter—this time in detail. “No, but he would not be opposed to my visit.”

“Would you like to go?”

Benjen smiled. His fingers traced over a sentence that his eyes couldn’t tear away from. “I would. I must thank the king for his kindness. I never got the chance to do so.”

“Eternal damnation is a true mercy,” Mormont scoffed.

“Sinners feel more at home in hell than heaven,” Benjen countered. He walked over to Mormont’s side. The former Lord of Bear Island eyed the First Ranger carefully. The man knew how to move, and he knew how to strike to bring a man to his knees. “May I have your permission?”

There was never any doubt it would be granted. “Would you like to bring any men? Yoren?” Mormont knew he was one of Benjen’s favorite lovers.

Benjen shook his head.

“No, there is someone I want to see,” Benjen revealed. “And he will want to see me alone.”

***

Jon sent out several letters that evening. Some to his friends, others to family. Amongst his receivers was an ironborn omega locked away in a land with bloodstained sands and the black fingerprints staining the surface of their stones. Jon knew this might have been his last chance to see Theon again. Many can refuse to attend a nameday or a wedding, but a meeting with the king was invaluable.

Not even a Bolton could say no to a royal invitation.

***

Outside of Winterfell, the world goes on, and people perform as expected. The royal camp got their dwellings to make the next move on their journey North. They passed through the Neck with no difficulties—a pretty omega sent to lead them out of the swamp as Lord Reed who was too ill to meet them personally. The king wasn’t insulted by the lie and spent the entire trip balls deep within his guide. Right after they left the Neck, there was a fight between the queen and the king; the subject of their quarrel was not about the infidelity but his dismissal towards Lord Reed’s rudeness. Cersei’s pride grew by the year, and she no longer had the patience to withstand the insult, real or otherwise. Jaime watched them, bored. From behind him, he thought he could hear someone whisper ice into his ear. When he turned around to look, there was no one. 

Ridiculous, Jaime thought. He shrugged off the eyes on his back and kept on riding ahead.

Further south, a sequence of events fell into place after Jon Arryn’s demise. Houses send goods to the capital to pay their respects. Members of the court depart for their own adventures, having not been selected to join the king but lacked the standing to be insulted. Stannis Baratheon took an ill leave to Dragonstone, dragging his family along, while the Hand’s widow was huddled in the Eyrie, wrapping her arms so tightly around her son, he could have choked.

Lysa Arryn’s departure was not unwelcomed.

Not too far from the Red Keep rested a beautiful woman, adorned with blue jewels and lavish golds that would make a Qartheen’s mistress jealous. She dressed skimpily, but there was a fineness in her wares that made it clear she was no common whore. Her red hair flowed past her shoulders and could barely cover the truly remarkable breasts.

When Petyr Baelish entered her room, she’d gotten up to admire herself in the mirror.

“She’s gone,” he announced from the doorway. He opened his mouth to explain, but the woman turned around and rendered the Littlefinger speechless.

She must have liked the reaction, for she walked up to Lord Baelish and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” Catelyn Tully said as she brought his lips closer for a kiss. “I knew I could trust you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa owned one southern gown in her wardrobe. She only wore it once. The Tyrells gifted her entire family with luxurious wears when they hosted the Starks for a tourney, and Sansa treasured the silk dress like one would a golden chalice or a Valyerion sword. For years, she longed for the occasion to wear it again. The Stark girl pined for invitations to grand masquerades at Highgarden or golden balls at Casterly Rock. Most of all, she yearned for the day her mother would return to Winterfell and whisk her away to Riverrun, where they could be reunited, and she could be married to a handsome lord or lady who would place her first in their hearts. She wrote about her dreams and aspirations, done with the intention to send those letters to her mother's childhood home. Sansa hoped for a loving response or even a rescue, but it never happened.

Those letters were never delivered. Sansa outgrew the dress like she outgrew those fantasies. She made her own gowns. Her stitches were perfect. She was lovely in everything she wore, and Sansa wanted to be beautiful more than anything because the prettier she looked, the more she was compelled to look in a mirror. Whenever Sansa did so, she could imagine her mother looking back at her.

“You look so much like her,” Septa Mordane told her when she saw her staring a second too long. “Lady Stark was a great beauty.” 

“Is.”

“Pardon?”

“Is,” Sansa corrected, before adjusting her corset so the dress could flatten adequately. “She may be dead in the eyes of my father, but she still lives.” Wherever she was, Sansa’s mother was still alive. Her father was an honest man, and he wouldn’t be so kind as to hide her mother’s corpse from her. 

“Sansa…”

Sansa ignored her. “Can you hand me my coat?”

The septa pursed her lips. Sansa could see her disapproval in the mirror, but she handed it over. “Are you finished dressing already?”

Sansa took the furs from her hand. “Yes.”

When she spoke no further on the matter, the septa pushed. “Are you sure that dress is befitting for the occasion?”

“Yes, it is one of my finest dresses. You said it was one of my best.”

“The embroidery is exemplary.” Septa Mordane tugged at the silk. “The design, however, leads little to the imagination.” She narrowed her eyes at Sansa’s collarbone. “I advise you to change into something more appropriate.”

“If I needed a lesson on modesty, I’d ask my mother. A real lady.” The septa flinched. “If my father protests, I will change.” 

The proposal was unfair. Both of them knew Lord Stark would say nothing.

Still, the holy woman persisted. “You are meeting with royalty, Sansa. Not attending tea in the south,” the septa added. She gave Sansa another once over, and her eyes were firm on her lower than average neckline.

Sansa put on her coat. “Jon wore worse when he was my age.”

“And he has a litter to show for it.” The septa scowled. “Jon Snow is not the standard for any omega to strive for, let alone a lady such as yourself.” Septa Mordane rummaged through Sansa’s things, selecting a round brooch with a wolf’s head engraved on the metal and sapphire for eyes. The woman pinned it on Sansa. “There. Perfect.” 

Sansa touched the wolf’s head. The metal was cold. “Do you think it suits me?” 

“Of course, it’s your house’s sigil. It establishes who you are.” The septa praised. “And as your father’s oldest omega, you are expected to be seated in your rightful place, right alongside your trueborn brothers.”

Oh, Sansa paused. They were having this conversation. Sansa would never say the septa didn’t overstep her boundaries, but the older woman was subtle. She slipped in snide remarks and backhanded praises like they were sport if she was feeling particularly contemptuous. But still, the old woman loved her, and it was nice, being someone’s favorite for once.

The Stark girl turned around to face her septa. “Are you upset with me?” She asked in a light, almost teasing manner. Because as tired as she was, Sansa was amused.

Septa Mordane hummed. Her face betrayed nothing. “I find it difficult to understand why your father handed the honor of overseeing the king's arrival." Before she could control herself, her lips morphed into a snarl. "Over a trueborn child like yourself."

Sansa shook her head. “Yes, counting chickens and ordering wine is such an honor."

“That is not the point. Jon is weeding you out of your right—.”

“My right is to marry whoever my father wants me to marry,” Sansa interrupted, her voice stinging like a slap as her annoyance bled through. “And father would never command Jon to do the same." She sighed and turned around. "Even if he did, Robb would never allow it.” Her hair was a mess. She needed to redo it. “I know what my rights are.”

And they were less than a bastard, was left unsaid.

“Sansa…”

Damn the pity in her voice. Sansa wouldn’t hear it. “And I did not do nothing,” she defended. “I worked on the seating for the feasts. Everyone says that’s the most important part.” Everyone being herself and her friends.

“Yes, you did such a fine job,” Septa praised. Then, she hesitated. “I noticed you choose to seat Jon at the festivities.”

“I did,” Sansa agreed. “Father would not have it any other way.”

“That is true. However…” Septa Mordane began, “I see no reason to sit him so close to the main table. He is sitting beside the squires and knights—should he not reside amongst the servants?” Septa suggested her face void of any ulterior motive. “Sitting him amongst alphas might be a danger to his virtue.”

“I thought it was a fitting placement,” Sansa explained. “It’s far enough not to insult the queen and close enough to keep an eye on him. Omega or not, Jon can take care of himself.” Besides, Sansa thought with a raw yet composed bitterness, who was she take joy away from the king? He deserved a lovely view to dine in front of.

Septa Mordane practically read her thoughts, but she had the gall to say so out loud. “Do you think the king will want to see your brother?”

Sansa became still. Septa Mordane’s eyes peered down onto Sansa, like the ever-watching gaze of the Mother-God, a figure the septa insisted her charge pray to, but whose silence resulted in a lackluster response as of late. Sansa was not her mother; despite her attempts to keep her close in her heart, her soul remained that of a non-believer.

Sansa would not be judged by anyone. “It would be no surprise if father wanted them to meet."

“Would he?”

“How could he not? Jon is his beloved child.” 

“You are your father’s beloved child,” Septa Mordane insisted. “And the beloved child of the North.”

Sansa could have laughed. There was not a damn northern thing about her, even her hair was alit with flames. She was hot as the summer streams of Riverrun; she was nowhere near the beauty of the snow blanket landscapes that Jon resembled.

When the eldest Stark gave no response, Septa Mordane sighed. “Well,” she admitted, beaten but not defeated, that the king would undoubtedly enjoy the pleasure. “Perhaps you are right. Indeed, I believe Jon is more suited to the king’s…acquired tastes.”

Sansa’s lips twitched. “Don’t let my brother hear you say that.”

“I could care less for what that child thinks of me.”

The woman believed Jon Snow aimed to seduce the kingdom, hopping from bed to bed in some epic quest to discard Winterfell's wives. Sansa knew better. She glanced over at the rose near her bedside. It hadn’t bloomed in three years, remaining an unchanging bud since her mother left.

“Jon is not the brother you should be worried about.”

“Excuse me?”

Sansa turned around to face the mirror again. She began to work on her first braid. “Jon is not the one trying to cast the omegas out of Winterfell.”

***

Down at the Dreadfort, Theon’s terror of a spawn cackled as his mother chased him down the halls; the noise echoed off the bricks to come together in a haunting chorus.

“You little monster!” Theon shrieked. His son dashed down the stairs and was about to head to the nearest room when Theon reached forward and scooped him up in his arms. The two tumbled onto the floors, with Theon bearing the brunt of fall as his child busted out into hysterics. Theon grimaced with annoyance before his son turned his wide eyes on him as if pleading with his mom to laugh. Unable to deny him anything, Theon laughed madly. He got up and picked up his son in his arms. Dashing footsteps got louder as the maids found them, one of them being the primary caretaker of Theon’s son. “Rogar! If you do not come here now, your father will beat you—” Rogar's caretaker shouted. Then, her face turned white. “Lord Theon!” 

Theon turned to them. He kissed his son on the cheek, and the child giggled in his arms. 

“I see you found him,” Theon sneered. “To think you’d lose my son again. Tell me, what is the point of you?”

The maids bowed their heads. “Forgive me, m’lord.”

Theon rolled his eyes. He told the woman to prepare them something to eat and bring it to the dining room. “My sweet Rogar must be hungry running circles around your lot.” Theon squeezed his son in a tight hug. He gave his servants a once over. Sweat drenched their garments, and their faces were blotchy from the excursion. They must have been climbing up and down the castle this entire time. “And clean yourselves up,” Theon snapped. “You’re absolutely filthy. I don’t need you sullying him with your dirty hands.”

The maids glanced at each other. Rogar was literally covered from head to toe with dust and cinders. He must have traveled everywhere in his unconsented game of tag. Theon saw their gazes and launched into a barrage of insults, shouting at them to leave and do as they were told. He ordered a washcloth, lunch, new clothes, and more demands than a human could comply with in the amount of time given.

“Mama,” his child whined.

Theon kissed the top of his son’s head. “I’m here, I’m here,” he soothed. Theon knew he shouldn’t have let those ingrates take care of his child.

They would only corrupt him with their incompetence, Theon thought. His poor baby needed a lot of attention—he was so much like Theon. Full of ambition, Rogar always wanted more. More adventures, more toys, more kisses. If it weren’t for his eyes, there would be no Bolton in him at all.

All for the better, Theon thought. An omega shouldn’t be cursed with a plain face and the form of an apparition. Despite the complaints of the servants, it was for the better Rogar resembled his mother. The two arrived in the dining room, and a washcloth was prepared. Theon slapped her hands away when she tried to clean up his son and ordered her to leave. If the woman looked afraid, Theon dismissed it as insolence. Theon hated it when people touched his son; even his tutors and caretakers were given strict instructions not to lay their hands on him unless necessary, and there were so few necessary reasons. Theon also commanded them to address him first if there were issues with his child’s behavior. Fortunately for Theon, Domeric never contradicted this demand. Bolton rearing meant children were seen and not heard, and the heir of Dreadfort was above listening to any complaints relating to his omega son.

Once Theon finished cleaning up his child, he hugged him again.

“’m hungry!” the babe complained, urging his bearer for food. He pounded Theon’s chest until Theon swatted his hands away and rested him on the nearby chair. He barked at the maid, inquiring what was taking his food so long.

“I asked her to withhold it until we finished speaking.”

Theon felt a cold wind enter him.

Setting his son aside, Theon took a deep breath and stood up. He turned around with a broad smile, showing every beautiful tooth as he welcomed his husband from his duties. “I wished you had told me we were having lunch together. I would have ordered the maids to fix you up a finer meal. Please, sit.” Theon told him as he gestured towards a maid to pull out a seat.

“I think you’ve wasted their time enough,” Domeric retorted. He looked at the cupbearer waiting in the corner. “Fetch me some water.”

“Water? Perhaps a spot of wine will be better for your thirst. You deserve the finest—”

“I want water,” Domeric cut him off. “Do not correct me again.”

Theon’s smile faltered, but he recovered immediately. “Of course, I was silly. Tell me about your day.”

Domeric’s face gave nothing away to his intentions. It was rare for them to spend anything but their evening meal together. Most of the time, he was out on trips, socializing on northern expenditures, or parrying at tourneys, all in the spirit of making allies. When he was home, he managed the Dreadfort. For all his faults, and Theon could list one every minute of the day and still not have enough time, Domeric was an efficient lord. Regardless, the heir didn’t want Theon to do anything. He didn’t trust him to be anything but a pretty face and an open pair of legs.

“I received a letter from Winterfell today.”

Theon pretended not to be troubled. Domeric read all his letters and had to approve the ones sent out. The Bolton didn’t want the negative implications of silence. Instead, he made sure every message was carefully crafted, with not an ounce of reason for concern. If he was confronting Theon about one of them, it meant either Robb or Jon said something out of line.

Theon prepared for the worst.

“The king will be arriving in Winterfell in the wake of his Hand’s death. The Starks has invited us to attend.”

“That’s wonderful!” Theon’s reaction was immediate, almost suspiciously joyous. He cleared his throat. “For you to receive such an honor,” the omega explained in haste. “You deserve, more than anyone, to be recognized for your duty to the realm.”

Domeric remained expressionless. “And, what, pray tell, is that duty?” 

Theon had memorized the proper rhetoric. “You have done what many lords have not attempted in centuries—build the bridges between the North and South.” Theon grinned. “Your attention to our friends south of the Trident should be remembered for what they are—a start to a new beginning. One beyond isolation and winters without a warm touch from those with wool mittens. Progression.”

“And progression is a good thing? In your opinion?”

Theon knew the answer to this question.

“If it is your desire, how could I think anything else?”

Domeric did not say anything at first. Finally, he spoke, “Such pretty words,” he remarked. “They suit your pretty face.”

Theon flushed with pride. 

Domeric finished his cup of water. “If only you were not ill, I would have no issue making the journey.” 

Theon was taken back. He voiced his confusion, stating he was at his fullest health.

“Is that so?" Domeric asked; eyebrow raised. "Well, if you are not sick, can you explain to me why you are still not pregnant?”

The entire room fell silent. Domeric raised his cup to be filled with water, as Theon shook in his seat.

“It’s been three years. Three long years of examinations and barrenness—tell me, how is that you grew up amongst bastards and trueborn spawns, and not a seed of fertility has been planted on you? Are you so useless that I could have invested my coins into a salted field and been more fortunate with a crop—”

“Fetch me some apples!” Theon demanded. Acting upon instinct, Theon ordered the maid to take his son and go fetch him some food. The boy wailed at having been placed in the hands of another, but Theon persisted. “Take him and fetch him some apples!”

“Lord Theon—!"

“Get him some fucking apples, you stupid girl!” Theon snapped.

The maid grabbed his son and ran as fast as she could to the kitchens. Theon looked down, trembling as Domeric continued as if nothing happened.

“I’ve been patient,” Domeric explained. “But my patience is not without limits, and my frustration is merited. Boltons give birth to alphas. It is not a hard feat or an impossible one. My mother did her duty, and my grandmother before her and so forth. You are a Bolton now, and you are supposed to give me an alpha. An heir. Have you done so? Have you done the one thing I’ve ever asked of you?”

Theon opened his mouth and then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” Theon whispered, his eyes filled with tears.

Domeric ignored him.

“Then, I am asked by your foster family to attend a celebration welcoming the king. A celebration that will surely be attended by Jon Snow—the Stark bastard.” Domeric narrowed his eyes. “A Stark bastard with two bastard sons. Alpha sons.”

Theon winced.

“He gets two boys, fathered by pig farmers or thieves whatever scum would be willing to degrade themselves by falling in between the thighs of a bastard, and has two alphas to show for it.” Domeric slammed his cup on the table. Theon jumped. “And I get a salted womb.”

The humiliation bled into Theon’s mouth. He could taste the iron from where his teeth sunk into his tongue, and he swallowed, hoping to clean his insides before requesting to leave.

“You are not excused.”

Theon swallowed again. The blood was pooling up. “Please,” he begged. Theon wanted to get as far away as possible. He wanted to see his son. “I want to go.”

“No, you want apples.” Domeric turned to the maid. “My darling wife loves them.”

The maid returned with the fruit requested, and within seconds of bringing Rogar, the child went dashing towards his mother’s arms. Theon held him tight. Domeric turned to the apple basket and grabbed one. While Rogar was nestled in the crook of Theon’s neck, Domeric’s hand lunged forward to grab his face. Theon could feel the phantom fingers on his neck.

“Here,” Domeric offered as he shoved the apple against his mouth. “Eat. You need the nutrition.”

Theon’s lips bled against the red skin. Domeric only let go when Theon forced himself to take a bite. When the Dreadfort heir was satisfied with Theon’s behavior, he let go. Theon continued to chew, with the crunch resembling broken bones.

***

Baskets of apples and pears and lemons were taken from the glass gardens and shipped to the kitchens for the feast. Jon watched them all. He found great comfort in watching people; Jon liked to see how their lips curled when they were in distressed, or the silent words were spoken when their eyes gazed at their superiors' backs. Jon, as a bastard, floated within the purgatorial realm between servant and lord. The blood within his blood ran too blue to blend amongst the red of commoners but was not gold enough for the citadel's sigil declaring his mother and father wed. He was not born with a purpose, and in another life, he may have done something foolish to fill the emptiness of being left without a duty.

Instead, Jon had Robb. He had his children, the eldest of whom was clutching onto the hand of his youngest uncle. Rickon was growing like a weed. He walked beside Jon, leashing his half-brother’s eldest to keep him from running off. Rickon, too, had to grow up faster without his mother. Despite that, he was a sunny child. Jon was horrified by his own delight at the fact, for he knew Rickon’s high spirits came from not genuinely knowing his mother. Lady Catelyn left so suddenly and so soon before Rickon’s growth. He remembered her red hair and warm voice and love, but those memories would fade and become one with many others. He already mistook Sansa for Lady Catelyn once; months ago, Rickon asked why Sansa never repeated the stories she used to read to him as a baby, only for his eldest sister to storm off in angry tears. She told him later that those stories came from their mother, not her. In hopes of rekindling his love for the woman who birthed him, Sansa asked if he would like to hear from her again. Jon could not describe the look she gave him when Rickon, unperturbed by the correction, told her it did not matter to read them as long as they were rediscovered.

“I just want to hear them again,” Rickon said with a toothless grin as the last of baby teeth began to fall out.

Sansa never brought up the mention of their mother again. Jon was no fool and knew his sister wanted nothing more than to fulfill her mother’s final wish and rid Winterfell of Howland’s touch, starting with his bastard. Yet, Jon had hope. Perhaps, he was naïve to think Sansa settled in her role as final mourner, but Jon liked to believe she'd move on from Winterfell. They would never be as close as they once were, and it was madness to think they could be closer. But, Jon dreamed of the day Sansa could forget about him and enjoy her future in the South, surrounded by adoring suitors and envious ladies she would call her closest friends.

Because of their distance, Jon no longer included her in his plans. He knew—as Sansa appeared from the other end of the hall—that she longed for the day she could leave or see him put in the ground for sending her mother away. All they could do is wait. And so, Jon waited.

Sansa passed by him without saying a word and kissed Rickon’s ginger head before walking away. Her red hair bled into the citrine, and bloodied steak pushed into the kitchens; her footsteps were as light as a kitten.

“Jon?”

Jon looked down at his youngest brother and smiled as if he didn’t dread the inevitable question as to why Sansa didn’t like him. However, he was saved by another brother running through the halls, shouting his name to tell him the good news.

“The king is here!” Bran announced gleefully.

Jon smiled. Then, he covered it up with a suspicious look and a raised brow. “And how do you know that?”

Bran blanched. He fiddled with his fingers and looked down as he told Jon he heard it from one of their guards.

Jon roughly ruffled his hair, earning him a noise of disapproval. “I told you to have a spotter when you scale the walls. Did you?”

Bran’s face dropped. “No one was around…” He mumbled.

“Was no one around, or did you not ask?”

“They would have told me not to do it!” Bran protested.

Jon sighed, shaking his head with a resigned smile. He stroked his brother’s cheek and told him to tell their father about the king’s arrival. Before Bran left, Jon asked if he knew where Robb was. Bran replied he was at the barber to get ready for the king.

***

While Robb was preparing for a shave, Ramsay admitted he was impressed by Robb’s resolve.

“You won’t be without critics for your decision.”

Robb appeared unperturbed. “It’s Jon’s rightful place to stand beside me for the king’s arrival. He is the second oldest of my siblings.” 

“Yes, it is why he dines with you.” Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “Amongst other things.”

Robb paused. Before the barber could apply the suds for a shave, Robb stopped him. He asked for a minute alone. The servant complied, and it allowed Robb to face his friend at full confidence.

“I’ve meant to speak to you.”

“Is that so?” Ramsay asked. His smile shifted into a snarl, and some of his yellow teeth were borne.

“A raven came from the Dreadfort two nights ago,” Robb told him. “Theon and your brother will be attending the king’s arrival.”

Ramsay’s smile dropped. Then, his smug, cold expression returned as quickly as it left, and he asked Robb why he hadn’t told him sooner. “What a pleasant surprise,” Ramsay hissed. He stalked towards Robb, and the heir of Winterfell did not move an inch. Instead, he watched and waited for his friend’s next move. “I wished you had told me sooner.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” Ramsay agreed. “With all the attention on the king, there would have been no care towards my brother. As your attendant, I should have taken care of the arrangements.” Ramsay’s finger idly played with his knife’s handle. “Domeric is my brother in blood, and Theon is my good brother by law.” His eyes peered into Robb. “I wish them to be comfortable.”

Robb stared back, cautiously. “Theon was my foster brother for many years. I care for him deeply.” 

“I never denied it.”

Robb sighed. “Ramsay, I need you to be honorable for this trip. Nothing can go wrong. No theatrics. No games. I do not want anyone’s attention drawn to us.”

Ramsay scoffed. “Us? Do you mean me and you, or you and Jon?”

“Ramsay,” Robb warned.

Ramsay took his hand off his knife and raised his arms in mock defeat. “I mean no offense. You have been so kind to a man of stature, and Jon. Jon is truly an inspiration.” Ramsay looked off to the side as if the wall was not there, and he was staring at miles of open, northern lands. “Even bastards can rise to high places. One second, they’re being birthed in a farmhouse among pig shit and rats, and the next, they’re standing next to a Stark and greeting a king.” Ramsay turned to him and grin. “And that is merely the beginning. Give them time, a goal, a means…and they can rule kingdoms.”

Robb stared at him with suspicion. Then, his demeanor settled onto an intense, almost punishing calm. “Wherever you end up, whatever your family does, I want you to remember one thing. I will not allow a tyrant on my lands.”

“Oh?” Ramsay raised an eyebrow. “Is it your lands already, my lord?”

Robb shot him a glare. “Ramsay. Do not test my patience. Leave Theon, and your brother be. Lord Bolton is already suspicious of my intentions—and I do not need to see how a caged beast reacts.”

You think too lowly of my father, Ramsay thought, for Lord Bolton was never one to let his anger triumph over his ambition. He said nothing in response. Instead, the Bolton bastard walked over to Robb and picked up a shaving blade. “Do you mind?” Ramsay asked as he prepared the soap. He looked up. “Or do you not trust me?”

Robb told him it was fine. “Trust is not the issue here,” Robb declared. “Although Tommy may have an issue with you taking his work.”

“Tommy will live.” Ramsay pressed the blade against the other man’s skin. “He’ll have your hair. I merely want your beard.” He stroked Robb’s chin playfully.

“It is my best feature,” Robb replied with a smile, although his shoulders tensed with the knife ran down his stubble and against his throat. “Theon used to say he loved my face.”

Ramsay stopped his stride. The tension pressed the blade deeper into his skin.

“Had he?” Ramsay asked. He resumed his shave up Robb’s neck. “Careful my brother will not like you saying that."

“And what would your brother do to me if I said anything?” Robb looked up, but the blade continued to cut, with a shave as close to his face as their feet were to the floor.

"Could spell terrible things for Theon; the Bolton blood is prone to paranoia and madness," Ramsay admitted. "And you are handsome. If my brother didn’t know better, he would suspect an affair, and Theon would have to face his wrath. It would not be a pretty sight for anyone.”

“Fortunately, he does know better. Hmm?”

Ramsay flicked his blade. “He knows Theon is a pretty, vapid thing, who is too vain to pursue anything more precious than himself.” Ramsay flicked the blade. “He is a child, and all children have vices, be them sweets or toys. Theon…Theon likes a thrill,” Ramsay revealed. He moved onto the other side of Robb’s face. “He likes attention. He wants to make sure someone’s eyes are always on him. He won’t get that with just anyone. Not you.” Ramsay sliced further and further down. “And _not_ ,” Ramsay hissed, the tip of the blade pressed against Robb’s vein. “ _My brother_.”

Jon walked into the room at this moment. Ramsay’s blade shifted forward to nick the side of Robb’s throat. The scar was nothing, barely more than a papercut but enough, so a thin, strip of blood was slivering down his neck.

“Robb?” Jon rushed over to his side.

Ramsay immediately retracted the blade. “Apologies, my lord.”

Jon glared at the man suspiciously. He looked ready to kill, but Robb grabbed his hand. 

“I understand,” Robb replied, his lips twitched, almost in delight. “It was an accident. Clearly so.” He kissed Jon’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not hurt.” 

Jon was not amused. He dabbed the blood off of Robb’s neck and fussed over his brother. However, underneath his concern was a layer of irritation, both men would have been blind to oversee. Jon was not one for mind games, believing them to be the strategy of puppeteers. Ironic, given his mother’s propensity towards such arts.

The thought must have crossed his fellow bastard’s mind. Ramsay grinned at him, angering Jon further. He ordered Ramsay to call Tommy in at once and finish his job. Jon was in no mood to dawdle.

“The king is coming,” Jon announced.

***

The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel; bannermen and knights, sworn swords, and freeriders flooded Winterfell with an overcast of golden banners emblazoned by the crowned stag of Baratheon resided above them. The sight was grand, a painting brushed by the gods, and at the center of the grey landscape were jeweled characters of a divine comedy. The more people who came, the more uncertainty Jon felt. He took a step back behind his siblings, only for a hand to pull him back.

"Robb."

"Your place is beside me,” Robb reminded him.

Sansa snorted. Robb glared at her and open his mouth to confront her, but Jon stopped him before he could. Sansa had many talents, but Jon feared her mouth most of all. Sansa knew how to talk; she knew when to be silent and when to lie. She could rile anyone up, and Robb was no exception.

“Do not make a scene,” Jon pleaded, and though his voice was soft, the edge was evident.

“The king knows who you are,” Robb began again. “It won’t make a difference whether you are by my side or not.”

“It makes every difference,” Jon protested. “The king may not care, but the queen will. It is an insult, and you know this.”

“The king has the final say.”

“And what do you want him to say about my presence. I do not want any more attention drawn—"

“Will you shut up?” Sansa snapped.

Robb growled. “Sansa, I swear—”

Jon grabbed his face. He looked Robb in the eyes and begged, “Please. Do this for me.”

Robb grimaced, but let go. Jon stepped behind them. The bastard watched the riders from his position behind his siblings. Many odd characters traveled in the king’s party, starting with a half-giant with a terrible, burned scar on his face. Racing past him was a man who was tall and golden, with flashing green eyes. This is what a king should look like, Jon thought to himself as the man passed. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a white satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, a lion was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. Jon knew who he was by the sigil, but even if he had shown up without a thread, Jon would have known by his resemblance to the queen.

This was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer. Member of the kingsguard and twin brother to the queen. The queen was worth of a frame of her own. Cersei Lannister was as beautiful as men said and needed none of her admonishments to catch anyone’s eye. The jeweled tiara and decadent jewels were wasteful fodder on an already fruitful field. Still, Jon admired her as one would a painting. He drank in her long golden hair and her rich emerald eyes. She smiled at the sight before her, and though it was stunning in every sense of the word, Jon could see through her smile. Jon observed several individuals following, all of them on various ends of his interest. He was intrigued by a stunted dwarf trailing behind the royal party, having never met a man so small bred in the south. He wondered if there was a crannogman hidden within their family line. Tyrion’s head was too large for his body, yet his face seemed squashed and pressed on the surface of his head. He had his siblings’ green eyes in one, but the other was black as a weirwood puddle.

Jon observed all the guests with wide eyes. He wished his son was there to watch with him until the king arrived, and then Jon was grateful. Jon could not describe his feeling as anything else but ambivalence. His father had talked of him often: King Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. His mother made his own comments, as someone cruel and malicious, who began their ruined when he asked Ned to marry Lady Stark to secure allies for his war.

Jon saw neither of these things. There was only a fat man, red-faced under his beard, sweating through his silks. It was mid-day, yet the man vaulted off the back of his warhorse, tumbling like a man half in his cups. If not for how he made Jon’s father laugh with a joke, Jon would have thought the man was a fraud.

“Ned! It is good to see that frozen face of yours,” the king said, before pulling his father into a bone-crushing hug. The two exchange a few more pleasantries, starting with Robb and moving down the line, offering a sentence or two of praise. Jon, for better or worse, was endeared by the interaction.

“Did I empty one too many flagons, or are you missing a child?”

Lord Stark smiled, perhaps happy that the King even remembered. “My youngest girl, Arya, is being fostered at Dorne.”

The king looked at Lord Stark like he grew two heads and shook his head. He walked back to speak to Jon’s father but stopped in front of Robb. Everyone waited for him to speak. Then, to Jon's shock, he looked straight at him.

“This your bastard?”

Jon was taken back. He didn’t expect the man to acknowledge he existed. The Snow child found himself unable to respond. Even Jon’s father was put off by the question but confirmed his suspicion.

King Robert continued to stare. Jon greeted him as “your grace” before looking down, only for the man to bark out an order to face him. Jon’s head snapped up, and the man’s stare was no more welcomed. If anything, it was burrowing through Robert. 

“He looks just like you,” King Robert said. 

Jon’s father did not allow his discomfort to affect his sense. “He is my son,” Lord Stark stated. The comment was neutral, but Jon had heard him use the same tone with many warnings.

King Robert did not look away. “I always wondered what you would look like as an omega. Would have made you my queen if you turned out like this.” Jon shivered. “How fortunate the Stark beauty did not end with Lyanna…”

Robb moved in front of Jon. The step was subtle and barely worth any attention if Robert was not the king. The moment was shattered when the queen spoke up.

“It is getting cold, my love,” Queen Cersei declared, and fittingly, there was no warmth in her voice. “We should rest.”

The spell broke, and Robert came to his senses. He ignored his wife’s suggestion and turned to Lord Stark. “Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I will pay my respects.”

Despite Jon’s disappointment towards the legend, he felt a fondness for the man. Jon saw his father’s face, and there was so much love for such a simple request. Lord Stark was happy. He was happy to have his friend again, and he was happy his sister’s memory would forever be loved by a man other than himself. Jon decided that while he could not care for the king like his father, he could not despise him either. 

The two rulers left despite the protest from the queen. The parties dissembled. Vayon Poole handled the rest of the arrangements. Robb quickly returned to Jon’s side, keeping Jon warm by wrapping his arm around his brother’s waist.

“Are you alright? Did he make you uncomfortable?”

Jon shook his head. Playfully, he returned the question. “I should be asking you that. You were quick to take the arrow.”

Robb chuckled despite his apparent unease. It was a terrible situation to be in; watching his lover be the object of attention from a king. Whether Robb defended Jon or not, the consequences would be dire, and Jon had no doubt his brother would have went for the worst option if the king went too far.

Fortunately, the gods were good today.

“He didn’t look as I imagined,” Jon confessed softly.

Robb nodded in agreement. Still, he asked, “How did you imagine him?”

“He is your namesake; I imagined a king.”

Robb told him it was for the best. “I would have gone mad with jealousy.”

Jon chuckled. He pressed his nose deeper into Robb’s neck for warmth. “Never,” Jon promised. Then, he asked Robb what he thought the two men were talking about.

“Our aunt, most likely. The king was in love with her.”

Jon sighed. He raised his head and replied, “People say the king was in love with her.”

“You don’t think so?” Robb asked, amused.

“I don’t believe a man who asks another to leave the one he loves to ever love someone himself. Not truly.”

Robb hummed; though Jon was calm as he spoke, Robb knew the wound still throbbed. “Perhaps that is the reason the king was cursed with his queen, and I was blessed with you,” he soothed. “The gods may make mistakes, but sometimes the amends are worth it.”

“That is true.” Despite his sorrow, Jon smiled. He placed his fingers on Robb’s face and then his lips. He hoped his touch could convey even an ounce of his love. “You are an optimist, and optimism is the trade of fools.”

“I am a romantic,” Robb defended. He led Jon to the castle, where they could continue their day in the heat of their bedroom. “And love is the warmth of the soul.” He kissed Jon on the cheek, just short enough that the affectionate was not questionable. “Winter is coming, and it is time for me to warm you up.”

***

Eddard Snow was the picture of a peach when he sat in Jon’s lap at the banquet, wide-eyed and all smiles as he fed from Jon’s fingers. It was a stark contrast from his behavior earlier that night when he refused to leave his mother’s side after his bearer and sire returned to the bedroom for the intimacy unavailable outside their private quarters. Their plans were halted when Eddard grabbed his mother’s leg in tears. The little alpha had been confined to the bedrooms under Old Nan’s supervision for the entirety of the king’s arrival. Jon relented, despite Robb’s objections. Jon would stay with their child while Robb played his part as the steadfast and honorable heir. The two found their father to explain their issues with Eddard, but before Jon could declare his absence from the party, the Lord of Winterfell told Jon it was fine for his grandson to attend. The admittance threw both men off. Their father was too distracted to consider the complications and walked away without another word.

“That solves the problem,” Robb supposed, much to Jon’s exasperation. If his older brother noticed any oddities in their father’s behavior, he did not say. No, Jon’s duty was to worry, and as the night went on, Jon was relieved to discover that his concerns may be unfounded.

His father seemed fine sitting amongst the royals; there was not a single sign of the plague that haunted Lord Stark’s eyes from before.

In the current situation, Jon did not mind sitting away from his family in this situation. The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. The bard was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall, his voice could not be heard over the roar of the fire, the clangor of plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations. The party was hellish on the senses. Jon settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires and sipped his wine and fed his child when he asked. Jon could sense his son becoming drowsy and looked forward to tucking his son in, even if he was saddened that Robb would be unavailable to join him.

Jon’s sibling had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where his father hosted the king and queen. Robb had Princess Myrcella hanging off his arm. He was smiling, and though distant, his northern charm and good looks were enough to make the little girl swoon. Jon noticed the shy glances she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him—the telltale signs of an infatuation. Jon decided she was insipid. Robb didn’t even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; the young man chatted with her mindlessly about whatever dumb, silly little thing she wanted to talk about, playing the good lord with a foolish grin on his face. 

Jon tightened his grip around his son. “Go!” Eddard shouted. He wriggled in Jon’s arms. Jon snapped out his thoughts to see his beast of a pup come pattering behind the table. “Go!” He shouted again, more raucously. Jon sighed and got up from the table to reunite the two.

Despite Jon’s initial exasperation, he found himself smiling at the sight of his waddling toddler. The boy dropped onto the floor with a thud, and before Jon could go running after him, the wolf immediately acted and started licking the child clean. Jon’s siblings had not been permitted to bring their wolves to the banquet, but at his end of the hall, no one had said a word about either of his pups.

As a reward for his caring, Jon took half his honeyed chicken and threw it to the floor. Ghost ripped into it in savage silence. Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel, caught the chicken's scent and made her way towards it, and by association, Jon’s son. Before it could draw any nearer, Ghost was silent as his namesake and moved in front of Eddard. The bitch was three times Ghost’s size, fully grown and vicious with hunger, but even as it growled and snarled, Ghost remained steadfast. He bared his fangs, and after being subjected to the beast’s red gaze, the mutt slinked away with a final snap of her jaws.

Jon let out a breath he had not known he’d been holding.

Ghost finished his meal, while Jon picked up his child off the floor. “Time for your rest, my love,” Jon told him. He reached down to ruffle Ghost’s shaggy white fur. “You as well.” The direwolf looked up at him, nipped gently at his hand, then went back to eating.

Jon sighed and waited for the beast to finish his meal.

“Is this one of the direwolves I’ve heard so much of?” a familiar voice asked.

Jon turned around. He happily embraced his uncle Benjen, who ruffled his curls as Jon had ruffled Ghost’s. “Yes,” Jon exclaimed. “His name is Ghost.”

Benjen eyed the white pup and nodded. “Fitting.” Then, he leaned down and caressed the cheek of Jon’s son. “And this must be little Eddard Stark. He looks just like my brother.”

Jon smiled, a little tight with a touch of amusement. “This is Eddard Snow,” Jon corrected. “He is my child, after all.”

“Ah, that is true.” The hint of laughter in his uncle’s blue-grey eyes never left him, even after years in the Night’s Watch. Jon admired his uncle’s appearance. He dressed in black, as befitted a man of the Night’s Watch. Tonight, however, there was none of the rags or rough fabrics suited for a ranger but rich black velvet, with high leather boots and a wide belt with a silver buckle.

“I am glad you are well,” uncle Benjen told him. “Motherhood is not an easy job.”

“Neither is fatherhood,” Jon jested. One squire made room for their lord’s brother. Benjen sat and took a nearby goblet of wine, regardless of its owner. “Have you heard from Meera or Jojen?”

Benjen nodded easily. “Yes, they send their letters. I send mine. They’ve grown up well.” He sent Jon a playful smile. “I expect no less from Howland’s brood.”

Jon laughed. Eddard yawned and could no longer keep his eyes open. “I’m afraid I must end this conversation early. My duty awaits.”

“Wait.”

Benjen leaned forward to wipe the residue off Jon’s lips. “Summerwine,” Benjen noted. “Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?”

Jon smiled, a little red.

His uncle laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk.” He shook his head. “But I cannot let you return to your quarters alone.”

“Do not worry,” Jon assured. “Robb will join after he’s spent enough time here to be respectable.”

“Which is commendable. He is a good brother,” Benjen smirked. He threw his arm over Jon’s shoulders. “However, my brother will bring back flaying if I release you to a sea of inebriated curs.”

Jon groaned. “It has been a long night of travel for you. Eat. Drink. Mingle,” Jon suggested. “I’ll return once I’ve tucked this little one in bed. You can send the search parties if I don’t.”

“Or, I could save myself the trouble and walk you myself. You need the company.”

“I am not a child.”

“The fact that you have two is the root of concern here.” Uncle Benjen reminded with a raised brow.

Jon pouted.

“You know what your father would say.”

Jon forgot about his uncle’s almost obsessive devotion to Lord Stark. He was about to further protest, but a voice from behind seconded the notion. “Just listen to him already, you bastard.” The insult only sounded sweet coming from the messenger. Jon turned and broke out into a happy grin when he saw Theon standing behind him. Without thinking, the omega ran up to hug him, only barely minding his child in excitement.

“You came,” Jon exclaimed, relieved. “When you didn’t arrive as planned, we almost feared the worst.”

Theon sighed dramatically. “One of our horses got sick, so it delayed the journey. It is a miracle we made it tonight.”

They hugged again and were interrupted when Robb joined them from his pews. “Don’t I deserve a hug?”

Theon followed his request with a hug a touch longer than the one he gave Jon, but short enough to be respectable. Jon found nothing off-putting about the gesture. During many nights, he was present where they all laid in the same bed, talking about their dreams, or even the moments they camped in the woods and slept underneath the stars.

Domeric was not so open-minded.

“Theon.”

Theon stilled not so subtly. Domeric stepped forward to make his greetings. Robb and Jon responded with the same amount of civility.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Robb told the Dreadfort heir.

“It was an honor to be invited,” Domeric replied. He placed his hand on Theon’s back. Jon watched the fingers curl and dig into the omega’s back. “Come.” Theon straightened his back. “We should show our respects to Lord Stark and the king.”

Theon nodded. He did not have a chance to say goodbye when Domeric led him away, but they were stopped in their tracks by no other than Ramsay Snow, grinning like a rabid dog. The remnants of red wine were still wet on his lips.

“Brother!” Ramsay proclaimed. He sounded merry. This time, it was Domeric’s turn to freeze. The brazenness of his declaration threw Domeric off guard; the brief moments in which his composure fell, Theon’s chest swelled up with pleasure. “I was worried you would not come. It is so good to see you. Safe and sound.” He turned to Theon, and without any hesitation, welcomed him with a happy grin. “And my beautiful good brother. How long has it been since I last saw you? Four years?”

“Three,” Theon said immediately. Then, he smiled tensely. “Not since my wedding.”

“Yes,” Ramsay agreed. “What a lovely wedding it was. You were the most stunning bride I ever laid hands on.”

Theon’s blood turned cold.

Robb forced out a chuckle. “You mean eyes.” He took a step forward and took the cup out of his hands. “And you’ve had too much to drink. Come, why don’t we get some air? Theon, would you like to join us? We could catch up, and you can tell me about your son.”

The mention of Theon’s child immediately caught Ramsay’s interest. “Your son?” His eyes flashed over at Domeric. “My nephew.”

“Yes.” Theon perked up. He took a step forward to accept the invitation. Rogar is—"

“Rogar is asleep,” Domeric informed. “And Theon is to stay by my side for the evening.” He glared at the future Lord of Winterfell, and what little charm he had left was gone with his brother’s presence. “Lord Robb, I do not believe it is appropriate for an alpha and his friend,” the latter accusation was filled with disgust, “To invite an omega to join them alone, especially without asking his alpha first.” 

Robb glared at him. “Theon is like a brother to me.”

“But he is not your brother. He is my omega.”

Ramsay tightened his fists.

“I have no ulterior motives with him. The fact you would accuse me of harming Theon—”

“It is more than your motives; it is your behavior. If you wish to do anything with my wife, you must ask for my say.”

“I rather ask Theon directly.”

“Robb…” Jon tried to interrupt.

“Theon knows his place. He knows better than to do things that upset me. Isn’t that right, Theon?”

Theon swallowed. He looked up to Domeric’s cold eyes and back Robb and then finally landed on Ramsay for a second too long to be anything less than longing to a trained eye. Then, he returned to his husband as expected and nodded.

Domeric’s lips twitched, satisfied with the response. “Theon is going to stay by my side for the rest of the night.” He walked towards the royal family. “If you truly need the company, your brother is right here. I’m sure he will appreciate all forms of an alpha’s presence.”

Robb saw red at the remark. He stepped forward to confront Domeric, and Domeric took a step back. His face remained stoic, but every part of him was tense. The Bolton did not want a scene, especially in front of the king and Lord Stark. The situation would end in his loss regardless; no matter who was responsible for the altercation, Robb Stark was untouchable. He was Lord Stark’s son and the future Warden of the North; he would be his ruler in due time and soon, Domeric would kneel in front of him.

The thought must have been infuriating, especially for a man whose ancestors were kings.

Before a fight could break out, a loud clamor occurred not too far from them, and a stream of wine spilled all over the floor. It caught the attention of everyone.

Tyrion stumbled forward, brushing off the apologies of a nearby maid. He took responsibility for the gaff and walked towards the scene of near carnage. He caught Jon’s eye for a moment and then grinned.

“Is that a wolf?”

Jon jumped. “Yes,” he said without thinking. “A direwolf. His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. His apprehension was forgotten, and the same could be assumed of his brother’s anger. The heir almost looked amused.

“Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Come here, Ghost.”

Ghost took a step forward and backed away from him uncertainly.

Tyrion chuckled. “I believe I’ve frightened him. My apologies.”

Jon, perhaps out of pride, disagreed. “He’s not scared,” Jon said. He knelt and called out again. “Ghost, come here. Come on. That’s it.” The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled his master’s face. Eddard giggled when he felt the wet snout tickle his face. Jon gestured his pup towards the dwarf. The creature kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the man reached out to pet him, the white beast drew back and bared his fangs.

“Shy one, isn’t he?” Tyrion observed.

“Sit, Ghost.” Ghost obeyed. “Good boy. Keep still for me,” Jon commanded. He turned to Tyrion. “Be careful. Gentle. You can touch him now, but no sudden movements. I don’t want him tearing your throat out.” It was a mighty exaggeration, but one Jon hoped to come true shortly.

“We share a common desire.” The dwarf wriggled his eyebrows.

Benjen snorted in amusement.

Tyrion ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost’s ears and said, “Nice wolf.”

“For now. One day, he’ll be a real beast.”

“One can only hope,” Tyrion noted dryly. He looked at Jon with curious eyes. The party resumed without them invested in it, although now, there were many wary and curious gazes being sent their way. “I am Tyrion Lannister.”

“I know,” Jon said. He rose. Standing, he was taller than the dwarf. “I am Jon Snow. You’ve met my brother, Robb Stark. And here is Lord Domeric Bolton and Theon…”

“And who is this?” Tyrion paid the others no mind. He was fixated on Jon and his son, and gently squeezed the little alpha’s foot.

“Eddard,” Robb chimed in happily. It was rare for there to be any positive attention towards their children. Bastards were meant to be ignored; the sight of them was the embodiment of shame.

“Your son?” 

Jon answered before Robb could make the mistake of doing so. “He is.” The child yawned. Jon held him closer. “We’re about to go to sleep.”

Tyrion smiled. “I do not blame him for being tired. This is no environment for a child.”

Jon agreed. “I couldn’t resist his begging. I’m glad there’s an end to it, though.”

Tyrion nodded. “If you are need of a guardian, I’ll offer my services.”

“Oh?” Jon was taken back. “Why would you want to leave the feast?”

“I was about to take my leave regardless.”

“Were you?” Benjen asked, somewhat curious.

“It’s too hot. Too noisy. I’ve drunk too much wine and learned long that it is considered rude to vomit on one’s brother,” Tyrion told him. “Besides, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.” He glanced over at the true nobles. “I know a stranger’s input isn’t always welcomed, but your uncle is right. You shouldn’t walk these halls alone. Surely, someone needs to be by your side and guard your virtue.”

Jon fought the urge not to laugh. Tyrion sounded like he was joking, but he was afraid doing so would insult the little lord. He turned to Robb, who seemed conflicted. He knew the Lannister was no threat to Jon, but not responding to his offer with rejection was an insult in itself. Taking the initiative, Jon accepted the small lord’s offer. 

“Are you sure?” Robb asked.

Jon smiled, and he found himself as tired as his son. “Yes, go and catch up with Theon.” He smiled at Domeric, and though it was tight as a whore, it was present enough for politeness. Jon leaned into Robb’s ear and pointed out this may be his only chance. “You’re not getting a second alone with him tonight. Enjoy what you can for now.”

Robb grimaced, but he allowed Jon to leave without a fight.

Tyrion and Jon walked away from the feast in silence and only spoke when the noises from the festivities were barely above a whisper.

“So you are Ned Stark’s infamous bastard.”

“I am,” Jon agreed. “I am also Lord Reed’s infamous bastard. People forget about my mother too often.”

The Lannister studied his face. “Perhaps it is the resemblance causing them to forget. You have more Stark in you than your siblings. The king's blood maybe wine at this point, but he isn’t blind. He is right; you are your father’s image.”

Fair enough, Jon thought.

“Hmm…” Tyrion noted. “But, it is strange.”

Jon turned to him curiously. “What is?”

“Sometimes when I speak to bastards, I think they are seconds away from turning me to a quarter man. See, I’m not good with my words. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head.” He grinned. “But you’re not like the other bastards. You don’t care.”

Jon smiled. “I would have, perhaps, if I lived here my whole life. But in the Neck, there are no bastards.”

“None?”

“None.” Jon smiled at the boy in his arms. “Lord Stark is my father. Lord Reed is my mother. I am the child of love.” 

“What sweet words," Tyrion mused, almost darkly. "You're very lucky." The Neck is a kind place.”

“It is,” Jon agreed.

Tyrion stopped in his tracks." “Well, allow me to give you some counsel if you continue to reside here,” Tyrion told him. “Winterfell has welcomed you, but those outside these walls will not. Do not let love blind you to the ways of the world. Never forget what you are. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”

Jon was surprised by the advice. For a second, the dwarf almost sounded worried for him. “And you know so much about being a bastard?”

“All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

Jon looked at Tyrion. Then, out of curiosity, he asked, “Is there no crannogman in you?”

“What?”

“There are several people in the Neck as small as you, but they’re not dwarfs. At times, the blood of our ancestors runs stronger in some than others.” Jon stopped in front of his bedroom door. “Our people have married outsiders for centuries, sparsely, of course, and silently to avoid detection, but our blood runs through many lines.”

Tyrion stared at him for the longest time. Then, he shook his head, as if defeated. “My father could only dream.” He looked at Jon with warmth in his eyes. “The Neck sounds like a fine place. Perhaps I will visit.”

“They would like you.” 

Tyrion smiled at the promised, almost sadly. “I will see you soon, Jon Snow.” Tyrion shook his head and then winced. “If my head can survive the morning.” And with that, he turned and sauntered back to the feast. Jon watched him leave until he disappeared, and he noted that Tyrion resembled Jaime Lannister more than ever.

***

Unable to locate a cupboard on his way back to the festivities, Tyrion diverted to the courtyard; he took a piss near a stack of hay.

“That was some quick thinking.” 

Tyrion chuckled.

“Speak after I’m finished. I’m one stream away from getting my cock kicked by a stallion,” Tyrion jested. “I can’t afford to lose any inches.”

Benjen Stark came out from the shadows. “That’s not what I meant.” He leaned on the wall next to him, staring at Tyrion despite his state of undressed.

Tyrion shook his cock clean and pulled up his pants. “Jon Snow is a sweet boy.”

“He is,” Benjen agreed. “His parents made sure of it.”

“I heard you raised him.”

“I trained him to fight,” Benjen corrected. “Never one for parenting, but I’m good with a sword.”

“I know you are.”

Benjen chuckled, and once he got a laugh from the taller man, Tyrion sighed.

“I know what my brother did to you,” Tyrion said. “You have my sympathies.”

“Oh?” Benjen smirked. “You know all he did to me.” 

“I’m not fishing for details,” Tyrion corrected hastily. “Even I believe there is some knowledge better left forbidden.”

“Wise man.” Benjen looked through the window to the feast. His eyes caught his eldest nephew, chatting amongst his former foster brother. He seemed distracted, and Benjen expected a trip to his bedroom in due time. “What did you and Jon talk about?”

Tyrion shrugged. He climbed on top of a haystack and rested his back against the wall. “He invited me to the Neck. I must say, his words, along with the many anecdotes from travelers, has placed it at the top of my list. You’ve lived there, yes?”

“I have.” Benjen turned back to the dwarf. “For almost half my life.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. You were married.”

“I was,” Benjen clarified.

“To your brother’s lover.”

“It sounds stranger than it felt,” Benjen mused. For years, Howland would tell him that they shared a heart, and that heart was his brother. “My brother knew Lord Reed’s life, and the life of his son was safe in my hands. I’ve never been one to deny a duty.”

“It seems no Starks are.” Tyrion chuckled. “Your loyalty to that man transcends any oath.” 

“For the longest time, he was the only one who accepted me for all I was.” Sometimes, Benjen felt like the two were the only people who mourned their mother’s death. Benjen did not say the last part out loud. “If it were not for my brother, I feared my life would have come to an early end by my own hand.” 

Tyrion paused after the statement.

“Jaime…” Tyrion began hesitantly. “He’s not a bad man. He just makes bad choices.”

Benjen stared at him, almost amused. “I know,” he told Tyrion, much to the dwarf’s surprise. “The Night Watch has taught me much, and I know the world is not as black and white as our cloaks in the snow.”

Tyrion nodded. He opened his mouth, and it almost looked like he was thanking him. Instead, he changed the topic and asked Benjen when he would be returning to the Wall.

“Why? Do you plan on taking the Black?”

“What me? Celibate?” Tyrion made a face. “The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.”

“You would not be the first.”

Tyrion laughed, at which Benjen confessed, “I’m not fond of Lannisters, but you’re hardly the worst one.”

“High praise coming from a Stark.”

“You can thank your brother for setting the standard.”

Tyrion gave him an exaggerated, almost chagrinned sigh. “I said what I have to say. I love my brother for the same reason you love yours. I ask that you consider that when you two meet again.”

The light from the feast shone brightly as someone opened the door to the courtyard. Benjen glanced over to who was coming. He smirked. “I will,” he promised Tyrion. Tyrion followed his gaze, and there he was—Jaime Lannister, Tyrion’s older brother, and the man who dressed Benjen in his black robes and silver chains.

Tyrion, sensing his presence was unwelcomed, bid the alphas farewell. He looked back at them again before he left; a part of him was hesitant to leave them alone, but more of him was curious to see what would happen. Nonetheless, the dwarf knew it was not his place to stay.

Jaime Lannister turned to Benjen. He was furious.

“Does your degeneracy know no bounds? My fucking brother?”

Benjen chuckled. “If I’d known your jealousy would taste so bitter, I would have drunk more wine.”

“I am not jealous!” Jaime snarled. 

“No, you fear for your brother’s soul. Tell me, when he goes to the whorehouses, does he sing and pray or just worship on his knees?” 

“Do not. He is not like you.”

“You mean like us?" Benjen mocked. "No, he is not.”

Jaime Lannister felt a coldness pass through him. “I am nothing like you,” Jaime snarled.

Benjen shook his head. He was smirking. “No, you are right. I keep my vows.”

“You are a fucking whore—”

Benjen shoved Jaime against the Wall. His head cracked against the wood painfully, and the moan he made reminded him of sex. He grabbed a knife from his hip and pressed its sheath blade against the Lannister’s stomach. “Do you feel that?”

Jaime glared down at him. “What? You’re going to cut me? Here?”

Benjen leaned in and whispered against his ear. “I’m not talking about the knife.”

The blade moved out of the way, and Benjen stepped closer. He pressed his body against Jaime’s and rubbed his hardness against the Lannister’s own clothed one. Jaime hitched his breath. He could feel his cock stirring. “Stop it,” Jaime hissed.

“I missed your knot,” Benjen whispered. “Missed how it stretched my ass apart and filled me out. I think about it at the Wall, even when someone else is splitting me apart. No one's cock burns as yours does.” 

Jaime groaned. Benjen’s continued to rub at him. He took a step back and replaced his knife with his hand. He started to rub. “Stop it.”

“Make me.” Benjen squeezed his cock and let go. He did so repeatedly as he spoke. “Push me away. Take that sword you like so much and shove it through me.”

Without thinking, Jaime asked, “Which sword?”

Benjen’s laugh snapped him to his senses. He was about to push the man off him, but the crow took the initiative. Benjen stepped away from him, smug as he was the day Jaime first kissed him. “You are a fool.” Benjen turned around.

Jaime hated himself for asking, “Where are you going?”

“Back to the feast. Oh.” Benjen faced him. “You should join me.”

Jaime thought about crossing his arms and pouting like a child. He’d done it once as a child before his father beat it out of him with inane punishments and mental warfare. “I’ll join when I please.”

“I meant the Night’s Watch.”

Jaime was taken back.

Benjen shrugged. “We could use some soldiers, and we have nothing but open arms for criminals.”

Jaime’s confusion turned to anger. He bit it down, unwilling to give the Stark any more satisfaction. “I am not a criminal.”

“You broke an oath.”

“Oh,” Jaime sneered. “And you honorable men would sooner forgive a rapist than oathbreaker.” 

Benjen raised an eye at that, but he didn’t pry. “The Night’s Watch is more than punishment. It is redemption—something you may seek.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed. “There is so much redemption offered in guarding the kingdom against the perils beyond the Wall—the wildlings and White Walkers and whatnot. We’re so grateful to have such good, strong men like you protecting us.”

Benjen was too smart to respond in defense. He accepted Jaime’s sarcasm as complimentary. “I’ll give my commander your regards. You can ask your father to send his support as well.”

Benjen returned to the party without another word. He left Jaime behind, and it took everything in the Lion’s power not to run after him. When he was utterly alone in the courtyard, a sense of déjà vu overcame. It was the same coldness Jaime felt the first time he abandoned Benjen Stark.

***

Hours later in the castle, Jon was well settled into the warmth of his bedroom. He looked out his window to see people retreating to their camps and quarters. Robb had not returned. Noting that his son was safely tucked in with Ghost and Greywind curled up at the heel of the bed, Jon went outside to search for Robb. He passed by his father’s quarters and heard a sound. Curious, the omega opened the door and walked inside.

There was his father amid undressing. He looked sad, somehow smaller and more vulnerable than usual. As Jon stared, he began to notice wrinkles on his face and the thinness of his skin on his muscles. Lord Stark was not old, but he was getting old. It occurred to Jon that he made Lord Stark a grandfather when he was still fully capable of fathering another child.

“Father?”

Ned stood up and faced him, alarmed. “Jon? What are you doing here?”

“I…” Jon’s mouth opened, but he could not tell him the truth. “I wanted to speak to you.” He walked forward and sat on his father’s bed. Ned followed. “I’ve not seen you drink so much wine, ever…and I…” Jon fumbled with his thoughts. “I want to see how you were doing. How you were feeling about the king…he…” Jon smiled. “He’s not what I expected.”

Ned chuckled. “No,” he agreed. “He has changed a lot.”

Jon reached forward to hold his hand. “But you enjoyed yourself, yes? It’s always nice to see an old friend.”

Ned nodded. “It is.” The Lord of Winterfell sighed. “I forgot how draining it could be. Robert was never one to hold back.”

“I could tell,” Jon joked. Ned tried to smile, but the weights attached to his lips were too heavy, and he ended up frowning deeper than ever. “What is the matter?”

Ned contemplated telling Jon the truth before he gave in. It was a selfish act of his, to replace Howland as a confidant with Jon, his child, but Ned could not help it. Jon knew his presence fed the hunger in his father’s heart. Lord Stark longed for his soulmate. He longed for Howland Reed. Jon, no matter what, could not deny his father this one joy. 

“The king wishes to make me his Hand.”

Jon was speechless.

“I will refuse him,” Ned said. His eyes were haunted, his voice thick with doubt.

“Why?” Jon asked. “This is a great honor.”

Ned shook his head. “My duties are here in the north. I have no wish to be Robert’s Hand.”

“All the better for you to go. Your only desire will be to help the kingdom, not further your own ambitions. I can think of no better man to be in power.”

Ned shook his head, refusing to believe. “Robb is not ready.”

“How do you know?”

“He is too young.”

“You were younger than him when you declared war!”Jon proclaimed. He calmed himself, hoping he did not appear enthusiastic. The last thing Jon wanted was for his father to believe Jon wanted him gone. Then, the truth hit him. “I…” Jon swallowed. “I don’t want you here in Winterfell.”

Ned looked at him, shocked.

“This place…it is our home; my home. I intend to live here and die here, long after you are gone, but…it is also the place that tore you and mother apart. It is the reason you cannot be together. It is…” Jon shuddered and look down. “You are miserable here. And so was mother.”

Ned paused. Finally, he asked, in an almost meek voice, “Was he?”

Jon nodded.

Ned swallowed. After a moment of silence, he spoke. “It was all meant for Brandon, your uncle. He was supposed to have Winterfell. He was born to be a King’s Hand. I never asked for this cup to pass to me.” Ned sighed. “I only wanted Howland. I wanted to go south, to the Neck.”

Jon released a soft, almost mournful chuckle. “You will still go south, though further than expected.”

Ned smiled, and the sight was almost enough to bring Jon to tears.

“For what it is worth, I believe you will make a great Hand, and I believe Robb has it within him to become a fine lord. He just needs the chance.” Jon reached forward to touch his father’s face and kissed his forehead. “You do not have to leave if you do not wish. To be honest, I don't want to see you go.”

Ned chuckled. “You say that after making such a declaration?”

“I want you away from Winterfell, not gone.” Jon shook his head. “If I could have both, I would be overjoyed.” Jon shifted closer to his father. “I was without you for eleven years, and somehow I feel one would break my heart.”

Ned shook his head as if to shake the memory of his failures out of it. “Leaving you was my biggest regret.”

“But it had to be done,” Jon reminded him. “Just as I believe you must become the Hand.” 

Ned sighed. “What about Sansa?”

“What about her?”

It occurred to Ned that Jon was not present in the crypts when all the revelations occurred.

“The king wishes to wed Sansa to Joffrey.”

“Oh.” Silence passed between them. “I see.”

“What do you think?”

Years ago, Jon would have been happy for his sister. He would have celebrated the alliance. Now, Jon and Sansa could be sitting at the same table and be as far as The Wall and Dorne.

“It is an honor for him to offer his own son in marriage. Sansa might someday be queen. Your grandchildren might be kings.” Jon thought about his own sons. “You deserve that.”

Ned kissed his hands in comfort. “I have always been given more than I deserve.” Then, he nodded. “You are right. Sansa must wed Joffrey if nothing else but to prove our devotion to the royal family. It is a shame that Arya has already taken a foster home, or I would have dragged her to court. She could use the lessons.”

“Arya adores Dorne. Perhaps, she could visit you in King’s Landing. The travel will be faster.”

“If you’re not there, I doubt she’ll come.”

Jon immediately disagreed. “You are her father, and she loves you. She will want to see you as much as I did when I was her age.”

Ned sighed and kissed Jon again, this time on the cheek. Jon giggled. He kissed his father back. They’ve almost exclusively reserved their affection within closed quarters. At his age, their physical affection was no longer welcomed in public. There was no denying he was a bastard and a grown one at that.

“We will need one of the boys there. “Ser Rodrik tells me there is a bad feeling between Robb and Prince Joffrey. That is not healthy…”

“Bran has already been promised to the Neck,” Jon said immediately. “And the arrangements to send him there have long been prepared.”

“I have no intention on breaking my promise on that matter,” Ned reassured.

Jon sighed in relief. He was almost embarrassed to have been so rash. “That leaves Rickon?” Jon paused. “He’s so young.” 

“Joffrey and Rickon are both alphas. He is not…the gentlest of playmates, but Robert will prefer his sons to have a friend that isn’t so easily frightened. Besides, Rickon is quick to laugh and easy to play. Let him grow up with the young princes, let him become their friend as Robert became mine. Our House will be safer for it.”

Jon felt lonelier already. Still, he nodded. “I agree.”

Ned touched his cheek. “Would you like to come with me?”

Jon shook his head. “You know I cannot.”

“I don’t mean at King’s Landing. Just…just for the journey.”

I don’t want to lose you again, was left unspoken. I already lost your mother, whispered in their ears.

Still, Jon refused, because Lord Stark did not have the strength to. 

“My place is here. Unlike you, father, I was meant for Winterfell.” He was meant for Robb. “I may visit once you are settled, but not for long. Winter is coming.” 

“Winter is coming,” Ned repeated.

Jon gave his father one final kiss on the forehead and bid him a good night’s rest. Before he could leave, Ned asked him to wait.

“If possible…” Ned sighed. “If you see maester Luwin, please ask him to write a message to your mother. We will be passing through the Neck on our way South. I…do not want to surprise Lord Reed with my presence.”

Jon could not help it. His eyes teared up.

“Jon…”

“I know.” Jon wiped them away. “I do not mean to be so soft, I simply…” The bumps on his skin from the chill was still on his skin. “I fear the worst, that is all.”

“What is the worst?”

Jon did not have the time to go through all of his fears. What if one cries for the other, and the other looks away? What if they saw each other and walked away without a word, thus writing the finale to their love? What if they fall into temptation, making love underneath the weirwood tree only to have their hearts ripped apart again as his father swears fealty to the king?

“I fear you may stop loving him.” 

The confession cast a spell of silence on the room. Finally, Ned got up and held his son. “That is impossible,” Ned declared. “I will never stop loving him.” He pulled away to look into Jon’s eyes. “I will love him until my final breath, and for all the years after.”

Ned never looked away from Jon when he said this, and Jon knew he spoke the truth because he’d seen those eyes many times before. Jon saw them in the mirror, especially when he thought about whether Robb would enjoy his state of dress. He saw them in his children’s eyes when he could see himself in them. Tonight, Jon saw them again in his bed, where Robb was waiting for him. 

“Where were you?” Robb asked, more worried than suspicious.

Jon settled into his lap. He kissed him deeply on the lips, and when they parted, stared into those eyes. “I’ll tell you in the morning,” Jon promised. He leaned in for another kiss. “Tonight, I just want to be with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. This was a true transition chapter. For those of you who follow my twitter, you know I had to cut the outline for this chapter in half because it would have taken too long to write and it has been way too long since an update. Unfortunately, all the exciting stuff happens in the second part. You can also tell I lifted some lines directly from the book. That’s life. Next chapter will be much more fun, but until then, enjoy! 
> 
> Have a great day. Be safe!


	3. Nothing good comes from an author’s note.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am about to be needlessly dramatic.

Hello everyone,

I think everyone knows what’s going to happen

Anytime an author chooses to update with an author’s note instead of a chapter, it means only one thing: the story is being discontinued or is being put on a “hiatus” (which will be labeled as indefinite but we all know deep down in our hearts, it’s discontinued).

Now, I’ve made it clear in the past that if I ever have doubts about continuing a story, I wouldn’t leave its future ambiguous. I don’t want to cause false hope. Therefore, I am sorry to say that this story is being discontinued.

For the most part, I’ve not been happy with this series (sans “The Lifespan of the Sickle Ibis”) for a long time—dating back to the ends of “Crown the Wolf with Bronze and Blood.” I realize largely that I was updating for the sake of the readers and not myself, and it was beginning to wear on me that I didn’t enjoy writing it. It was stressful and time-consuming, and I found myself happier that I finished a chapter rather than being proud of what I’ve written. I just wanted to get it done, and I hated that. Writing is a passion, but it’s also a hobby for me. It’s something I am good at and something I enjoy. When it becomes a chore, or when I lose that satisfaction of producing a good product, it’s draining. I hated rereading some chapters. I hated submitting loveless work.

I think if you compared my earlier chapters of Crown the Wolf with the later chapters and this sequel, you will see that I put a lot less effort into the characters. I made them into pornographic tropes. Producing such smut-filled, cliché material would have been satisfying a long time ago, but that isn’t the case now. I've had a lot of time to reflect due to, you know, the world being on fire, but I think this was the best route for me and my mental health. 

I knew if I continued to write this story, I was going to end up D&D-ing the entire work—which is an apt verb because I do believe that the lack of (and poor quality of existing) Game of Thrones/ASOIAF material is one major factor in my demotivation. Quite frankly this story got away from me, and I don't know how to get it back and I am not motivated to look for it.

Whenever I map out a general idea of where I want the story to go, there was always a chance I will have to change the plotline. Unlike “Body Electric” or “The Lifespan of the Sickle Ibis,” I couldn’t make those changes happen for this story. For Sickle Ibis, I saw the mistakes from the start. To clarify, when I was first writing Sickle Ibis, I forgot how close Steffon Baratheon was to the king in canon. Fortunately, this plot hole was noticed before Ch. 2 so while I had to redo my original idea, I didn't have to make any big changes to the actual story. Similarly, in Body Electric, I had to remove an entire conflict that I planned in the outline, but since it was such an isolated plot development it was easy to remove without changing the entire story.

I can't do that with this story. There are so many problems with this story, and too many characters and too many different plots to work with, that I can't just change one thing without having to redo the entire story. And furthermore, even if I could, I don't want to. I would have to completely rewrite everything to maybe like it again, and I don't want to devote that much time and energy to it. 

And the bottom line is, my writing has changed. My standards are different. I want to write more, and I want to write something I will keep rereading over and over again because I am just so happy with what I created. And there are so many projects I have in mind that I can’t write because I have this on my plate. 

I know it’s disappointing. I am disappointed for not being honest with myself about my limitations.

I hope you all understand. If you don’t, that’s life. As a thank you to all the support you have given me, I am open to one final update. I have already made the outline for the upcoming chapter, and have no issues working on it as my last chapter. The reason I wanted to ask, however, is that it ends on a cliffhanger.

**A big cliffhanger.**

If you’re okay with that, then I will write it and post it as soon as possible. If not, then I will store it in a folder and have a place to pick it up if I become motivated to return to this story again. If that motivation never comes, and I do not update for two years, I intend to write a _detailed_ synopsis of what would have happened.

So yes. I am sorry but I really want to do this. But please, leave in the comments whether you want me to write the third chapter or not. 

Thank you and be safe. 


End file.
